La Vendetta degli Amanti
by giannimartelli
Summary: Modern AU. Pairings: L/E, M/A, others. Paths cross, threads become tangled, and a murder and kidnapping set a hundred things in motion. Rated M for a handful of m/m sex scenes and some violence. IN PROGRESS BUT SLOW GOING DUE TO SCHOOL.
1. La Vendetta degli Amanti I

Ezio Auditore looked up at the dark sky, squinting at the precipitation. He lifted the collar of his pinstriped overcoat against the rain, shoved his hands in his pockets, and shuffled indignantly along the sidewalk, pausing only to frown at a streetlight that flickered and died as he walked beneath it, then dripped cold rain on his shoulder.

He swung open a heavy glass door and stepped into a warm room, similarly dark in the shadows and lit over a wooden dance floor by a rotating multicolored light. He pushed his sodden collar back with gloved hands, pulled up the cuffs of his tight jeans, and looked down at his suede boots, wet from the rain and looking as if they might stain.

"_Ciao_," said the man behind the bar, turning a bottle of curaçao over his hand and artfully catching it so that it leveled to pour smoothly into a martini glass. Ezio nodded to him and took a seat in a dark booth, pulling his gloves off of delicate callused hands. He took off his wet jacket and set it on the bench, then returned to the bar.

"What can I make for you?" asked the bartender. He was handsome and confident, and Ezio noticed a scar on the bartender's lip similar to the one he himself carried.

"Just a beer, thanks." Ezio paused. "Start a tab." He had recently turned twenty-one and was already a regular at the bar after he'd spent his birthday there, and he spent much of his paycheck at the establishment every two weeks. He had worked through his junior year onward in high school, graduated at the dead center of his class, and had taken a higher-paying position at his father's bank instead of starting college, much to his mother's chagrin.

The bartender smirked and set down an opened Bud Light on the bar, and Ezio looked at him with killer's eyes, but grinned nonetheless and took the beer back to his booth.

The bar was mostly empty, save for a few young men on the dance floor enjoying some recent abomination of pop music; Ezio frowned when he realized it was quite catchy, and that he would be wondering what a disco stick was all night.

He was finishing his beer- and feeling quite buzzed, having drunk it in record time- when the door opened again to admit a man not much older than Ezio. He wore a tight sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, obscuring his eyes.

"Evening," said the bartender, and the newcomer nodded.

Ezio leaned curiously over the table and tilted his head to better see the young man's face. He felt oddly bewildered by him.

"You Ezio Auditore?" said the man, approaching the booth and taking a seat.

Ezio frowned and brushed a stray lock of hair from his face.

"You dropped your wallet."

Ezio patted his pockets and went a bit red. "Thanks," he said, reaching out.

The newcomer smiled at him, but did not hand the wallet over. "Going to buy me a drink?"

"Ah..." Ezio tilted his head. "You're a shrewd one. My pleasure," he said, turning his hand sideways to shake the other young man's hand. "You have a name?"

"Altaïr." He shook Ezio's hand and stood. "Going to the bathroom."

"But," Ezio protested, "you still have-"

Altaïr smiled over his shoulder. "You'll be here. I want my drink."

Ezio sunk back into the booth and watched Altaïr disappear into one of the single-stall unisex restrooms. A cover of an old Peter Gabriel song was playing on the speakers; the woofers shook the wooden floor beneath the booth. Ezio knew the song was about Jesus, but, he thought dryly as he traced the knots in the tabletop, he'd never thought of Jesus in _quite that way_ before.

Altaïr returned from the restroom and gestured toward Ezio. "Hey. You want anything?"

Ezio lifted his beer bottle by the neck. "Another beer," he said, and Altaïr snickered at him.

"Alright, buddy, you're buying," he said.

After a brief conversation with the bartender, Altaïr returned with a glass full of ice cubes knocking around in off-puttingly yellow liquid and another bottle of Bud Light.

As Altaïr shoved the beer toward him, Ezio noticed that he was missing a finger. He bit his lip and tried not to stare.

"Cars," said Altaïr, and Ezio shook his head and looked up at him. "I work with cars. Mechanic."

"Oh." Ezio took the beer and sipped from it quietly, feeling awkward.

"You say anything about it, I'll tear your shit up." Ezio looked up at Altaïr with wide eyes, only to see him smiling back. "I'm kidding. It's okay. Drink your beer."

Ezio shifted in his seat and looked off toward the door.

"So what do you do?" asked Altaïr, looking at the door as well. "And what's so interesting over there?"

Ezio felt his cheeks get hot. "I'm... sorry. Nothing," he said.

Altaïr smiled, seemingly pleased with Ezio's awkwardness.

"I work for my father," said Ezio finally. "At his bank." He gestured to Altaïr's drink and said, "dare I ask what that is?"

"Never seen a vodka-Red Bull before?" asked Altaïr, sipping at it.

"Looks like piss," said Ezio. Altaïr handed him the glass and he sniffed the liquid. "Smells like piss. Vitamin piss."

Altaïr shrugged and took his drink back. "Guess you're just used to Piss Light," he said.

The two sat in silence until Ezio's phone rang in his pocket.

"_I really wasn't carin', but I felt my eyes starin' at a man who stuck out in the crowd; he had the kind of body_-"

Ezio dug for his phone, his cheeks becoming redder and redder until he found it and hit the "silence" button on the side. He groaned and flipped the phone open. "Leo- I mean, hello?" Altaïr chuckled and rested his chin on his left hand, enjoying the flush fading slowly from Ezio's cheeks.

"I've told you not to call me when you're driving!" said Ezio irritably. "Yes, I'm at the bar. I- _ohh_... Leo. Fine." He paused. "Yeah. I'll see you." His cheeks again went several shades darker and he mumbled "I love you too" into the microphone before hanging up hurriedly.

Altaïr smiled and stirred his drink. "You're blushing," he said.

"You're missing a finger," Ezio replied.

"You're in a gay bar and you're embarrassed that your boyfriend called."

Ezio opened his mouth to reply, then promptly shut it and scowled at the table.

"Thought so," said Altaïr.

Ezio ignored him in favor of looking out through the door again.

"Hey, watch your four," said Altaïr. Ezio frowned and turned to his right to see an older man in a white suit with a red tie, smiling at him, unmoving, from a lonely table at the other side of the room. He had grey hair, cropped short, shrewd dark eyes, and a thick short beard, mostly salt with only a bit of pepper remaining. He lifted his eyebrows and waved with the fingertips of his right hand, and Ezio's eyes widened. He looked back to Altaïr, unsettled.

Altaïr only shrugged, but by the time Ezio could say anything, the bartender had whistled and the bouncer, a heavily built, extremely tall man with dark hair, started over to the table.

"You have been _warned_, Warren!" the man boomed, reaching for the white nightstick held in his belt. "You are upsetting the customers! Leave now, or Bianca and I will have more to say to you!"

The man's eyes widened and he stood- at his full height he was perhaps a head shorter than the bouncer- and left the bar quickly.

Several of the young men on the dance floor applauded, and the bouncer took a dramatic bow, then went back to his seat by the bar.

"Well, that was exciting," said Altaïr dryly, finally shoving Ezio's wallet across the table.

Ezio nodded, distracted as a man on a midnight blue Vespa scooter sped past the door.

"If you don't want it," said Altaïr, reaching for Ezio's wallet, "I'll-"

Ezio's eyes flickered a strange color, but he smiled and pocketed his wallet and went back to focusing on the door.

Altaïr snapped his fingers in front of Ezio's face. "Hey. What are you looking at?"

Ezio grunted and shoved Altaïr's hand away. "_Stop it_," he said. "I thought I saw..."

"The boyfriend?"

"Yes." Ezio rolled his eyes. "The boyfriend."

Altaïr smiled. "I'm going to have another," he said, draining the last of his drink, and before Ezio could protest, he was at the bar ordering.

"_Dick_," said Ezio.

Altaïr returned with another vodka-Red Bull and another beer for Ezio ("I hadn't finished this one!" he protested) and sat. The door opened again, and two men entered, one in jeans and a black satin dress shirt with the empty left sleeve folded in half and pinned up to the shoulder, and the other behind him, holding the door, in a grey military-cut shirt and a red and white striped beanie with a visor.

"Leo!" said Ezio.

"Mal," said Altaïr.

The two looked at each other, and then at the young men who'd just entered the bar.

The man in the hat smiled, his blue eyes bright. "_Ezio_," he said, gesturing to the man in black. "This is Malik." He sat beside Ezio and set his canvas messenger bag on the floor. "We have a couple of classes together this semester."

Malik nodded and reached across the table to shake Ezio's hand, then sat beside Altaïr, boxing him into the booth.

Altaïr grinned knowingly. "_Hey_, I get it." He took a long sip of his drink and Malik looked at him askance. "I get why you were embarrassed. You're the bottom, aren't you?"

Ezio, who had been in the process of finally finishing his beer, choked.

Malik scowled. "How many of those have you had?"

Leonardo offered Ezio a napkin, unfazed, and said "it's nice to meet you, Altaïr. I've heard so much about you."

Altaïr tilted his head. "Forgive me," he said.

"Leonardo." The blond man reached across the table and shook Altaïr's hand. "Anyway, it's not as simple as all that... it's fun to mix it up."

"_Leo_, that's... that's enough," said Ezio.

Malik pulled Altaïr's hood back. "You are incredibly rude," he said.


	2. La Vendetta degli Amanti II

Altaïr slouched his shoulders and Ezio leaned down to look at him, then over at Leonardo, who was rummaging in his bag.

"What are you doing?" asked Ezio.

"Mm." Leonardo sat up and put a tiny netbook computer on the table. "I have a paper."

"When's it due?" Ezio asked.

Leonardo pulled his cell phone from his pocket and looked at the calendar. "Wednesday," he said.

"It's Friday," said Altaïr.

"Yeah." Leonardo pushed a flash drive into the USB port and pressed the power button.

"He won't finish," said Malik and Ezio at the same time.

Leonardo frowned, closed his eyes, and shook his head. "So supportive. Do you want anything, Malik?" He gestured to the bar as he stood.

Malik scratched his chin. "Just a coffee. I'm driving."

"So am I," replied Leonardo.

"There is a difference between you and myself." Malik rested his elbow on the table. "A cup of coffee will suffice."

Leonardo sighed. "Alright." He went to the bar and Ezio watched him, brushing his hair back behind his ear, smiling until he saw that Leonardo happened to be subtly checking out the bartender as he took a seat nearby.

The bartender was flirting back, smiling over his shoulder as he held the top on a whirring blender. He poured Malik's coffee and emptied the frothy pink contents of the blender into a tall glass and winked as he stuck a strawberry on the edge.

Leonardo returned to the table, smiling his usual excited white smile. He set Malik's coffee in front of him and sat beside Ezio again, sipping his strawberry daiquiri eagerly.

"You are _so_-"

"_Shh_!" Leonardo put a finger to Ezio's lips. "Busy."

Ezio grunted and rested his elbows on the table, listening to the sounds of Leonardo's typing and watching Malik watch Altaïr.

There was an odd sort of look on Malik's face- a strange disapproving look that carried yet more weight. Altaïr finished his drink and looked over at him, and Ezio noticed that his hand was under the table, possibly on the other man's leg.

His suspicions were confirmed when Malik almost twitched a smile but instead kicked Altaïr under the table.

Leonardo made a face. "EBSCO isn't letting me in," he said, and Altaïr and Ezio looked at him, then at each other.

"What's EBSCO?" asked Altaïr.

"A database," said Malik, "that we use for our research papers. Tiresome, at best."

"Oh." Altaïr grimaced. "My drink's gone." He picked up his glass and swirled the ice cubes around in it, then tipped the last few drops of liquid into his mouth.

"I could get you another," Leonardo offered, shutting his tiny white Toshiba laptop. "The wireless keeps kicking me off." He disconnected the USB drive and put it and the computer back in his messenger bag, then returned delightedly to his daiquiri.

"He doesn't need another," said Ezio.

"I am forced to agree," said Malik.

Leonardo shrugged. "Two to one," he said thoughtfully.

Altaïr sighed and set his elbows on the table, and Malik slowly sipped his coffee. Leonardo looked at Malik, then at Altaïr, then at Ezio, then sighed and pulled a textbook from his bag.

"How many credits are you taking this semester?" asked Malik after a moment of leaning over Leonardo's book.

"Nineteen," Leonardo said.

Ezio leaned back in the booth. "He's getting his second degree... double-majoring. Again."

"Why don't you just get your PhD?" Altaïr asked.

Leonardo made a face. "Because I don't want to put myself in that position," he said.

Ezio smirked.

"I don't want to be stuck doing one thing my whole life. That would be excruciatingly dull." Leonardo slid his finger along the rim of his glass. "I want to do a little bit of everything."

"He placed in the campus art show," Ezio offered.

"Judge's Choice!" Leonardo huffed. "_Fucking marble statue_ got best of show. Bad anatomy." He shook his head. "I'll get him next time."

There was a _shhink!_ sound from the other side of the table. Altaïr's attention was focused on a shiny blade sticking out between the fingers of his left hand, in the space where his ring finger would have been. With a click, it disappeared, and seconds later reappeared.

"I wish you wouldn't play with that when you're drunk," said Malik, watching the blade disappear and reappear again.

Altaïr grinned lewdly and put the switchblade knife in the zip pocket of his hoodie.

"Can I see that?" asked Ezio.

Leonardo didn't look up from his textbook. "You've been drinking, and given how it fits his hand, it's a custom blade."

Altaïr shrugged and handed the knife to Ezio. "Careful."

The knife was designed to be palmed in the way Altaïr had held it. It had a straight guard over which Altaïr wrapped his fingers, and a button to be pressed with the thumb. Ezio held it in his hand and realized that it was completely useless to him in its present incarnation, then handed it back, somewhat embarrassed.

"Guy made it for me. Friend of a friend." Altaïr again pocketed the blade, then pointed at some odd characters on Leonardo's textbook. "What's that?"

Leonardo looked at it. "Notes."

"What language is that?" He turned the book around and squinted at it.

"English," Leonardo said, taking his book back.

Ezio snickered. "Barely. Leo writes backwards," he explained, and Altaïr frowned. "His shopping lists are hell."

Leonardo sighed. "I'm left-handed. I smear everything to hell if I write normally."

"I've known left-handed people and they didn't write like that," said Altaïr.

"I'm not everybody," Leonardo replied with an enigmatic smile.

Malik smiled wryly. "The professors _hate_ it."

"I have to scan everything and flip it and turn it in with my originals. And forget working in groups." Leonardo rubbed his forehead. "I can write forward, but..."

"That's fascinating," said Altaïr.

Leonardo looked wounded for a moment, then shrugged it off. "I get by," he said under his breath.

Malik rolled his eyes. "Bathroom," he said, gesturing. Altaïr looked up at him with an odd sort of affection as he left.

"So... what's the deal with you two?" Ezio asked, and Altaïr turned back toward him.

"What do you mean?"

Ezio sighed and took a drink of his now-warm Bud Light, then made a face. "Well, you're here... and he's here... in a gay bar... but you're not-"

Altaïr shook his head. "I don't know." He paused. "We're friends. He's got some stuff he holds against me."

Leonardo bit his lip hard to keep himself from laughing. He scribbled something on a napkin, and Ezio took it, squinted at it, and finally laughed.

"What..." Altaïr reached out and took the napkin from Ezio, pulled out his switchblade, pressed the button, and read the backwards writing reflected on the shiny blade. "_That's what she said_," he read aloud, and scowled.

"I am _so_ sorry," said Leonardo, grinning.

Malik put his hand on Altaïr's shoulder. "I thought I told you to put that away." Altaïr retracted the blade and returned it to his pocket, and Malik sat beside him. "Thank you."

"Well. Since I'm not getting any homework done," began Leonardo, drinking the last of his daiquiri and standing up, "does anyone want anything else?"

"_Yes_," said Altaïr.

Malik sighed. "Aren't you working tomorrow, Altaïr?"

Altaïr shook his head. "Jason called. Wants to give Ryan some more hours."

"That doesn't seem very fair," said Malik, "or realistic."

"Call him," said Altaïr with a shrug. "He told me Ryan's taking my shift tomorrow. Something about paying for college. Said not to take it personally, so I did. Anyway, I'll have another vodka-Red Bull," he said, and Leonardo smiled and kissed Ezio's hair.

"Want another beer?" Leonardo slid his hand down the back of Ezio's neck and fingered the collar of his shirt.

"Uh." Ezio felt heat rise to his cheeks at Leonardo's touch. "Better switch, I'll be peeing all night. They have limoncello," he offered.

"_Ooh_." Leonardo ruffled the soft hairs at the nape of Ezio's neck with his fingertips, and Ezio shivered. "Alright." He turned on the heel of his bright red Converse and headed back to the bar.

Altaïr grinned at Ezio. "You're blushing."

Ezio squirmed in his seat. Leonardo rarely had time for him, now that he was back in school. Though he spent his nights in the bed in Leonardo's apartment, he was often alone until the wee hours of the morning, and Leonardo rose significantly before he did to return to his work or schoolwork.

There was a significant pause, in which Ezio noticed Altaïr's eyes seeming to burn into his own, in strange fascination. "_Can I touch you_?" Altaïr asked, his tone mildly uncertain.

Ezio looked up into Altaïr's eyes, gold-brown, darkened by dilated pupils in the shadow of the booth. "What?"

Malik leaned back against the booth, sighing impatiently, and watched Leonardo order and covertly slip the bartender a rather large tip.

Altaïr's eyes flickered from Ezio's ruddy cheeks down to the open collar of his shirt, resting on his exposed collarbone. "There," he said. "Can I touch you there?"

Malik laughed, a strange sort of gruff guttural sound, as Leonardo returned with another vodka-Red Bull and four shots of limoncello.

Ezio's mouth felt dry. He picked up one of the tall cordial glasses and sipped the bittersweet lemon liqueur. He closed his eyes for a moment, readjusting, feeling buzzed from the beer; the fumes from the limoncello certainly weren't helping either. He jumped in surprise when Leonardo rested a friendly hand on his thigh, and looked at Altaïr for a moment, searching his eyes quietly. "_Yeah_," he said finally, sitting up in the booth.

Altaïr reached across the table and touched the side of Ezio's face, then slid his hand down over the back of his neck to pull him in closer. With his other hand he unbuttoned the second button of Ezio's off-white dress shirt, exposing more of his collarbone and the necklace that rested there, five silver beads on a thin leather cord.

Ezio sighed as Altaïr's callused fingertips brushed along the hollow of his throat, then, when they stopped, he bit his lip and sat back, returning nervously to his drink.

"Thanks," Altaïr mumbled into his glass, his cheeks reddened, and Ezio nodded cordially.

Leonardo smiled delightedly. "Are you two doing anything else tonight?"

Altaïr shook his head, holding his old-fashioned glass close to his mouth, grasping the straw with the fingers of his right hand as the tip of the straw grazed his lips almost obscenely.

Ezio swallowed, transfixed. He looked up from Altaïr's fingers to his lips, and a strange desire came over him as he thought, briefly at first, and then at length, about kissing him.

"Come back to my apartment," said Leonardo. "I've got room."

Ezio felt a dull aching weight settle into his stomach, edging into arousal. His cheeks tingled, and then his throat, and he realized that he had not been breathing.

The limoncello was hitting him hard already, and his mind was reeling. He closed his eyes and felt the earth move, or the room spin, as he drained the cordial glass.

The bartender rang a small hand-bell. "Quarter to two; last call," he said. "Get your orders in."

Malik looked from Altaïr to Ezio, shook his head, and went to the bar to get another cup of coffee.


	3. La Vendetta degli Amanti III

"What about you, then?" asked Leonardo when Malik returned. "Would you come to my apartment?"

"I suppose," said Malik, holding the cup of black coffee under his nose and inhaling deeply. "What else would he have me do?" He looked outside and noticed that the rain had started up again, pouring in a thick stream from a rusted hole in the gutter not far from the door.

Altaïr was paying no attention to Malik's words; he looked at him sidelong and smiled, rendered half-deaf by the nervous pounding of his heart shuddering in his ears.

Leonardo smiled patiently, all soft lips and blue eyes framed by blond hair, looking like some kind of perverse angel as he downed two ounces of limoncello.

Ezio looked over to Leonardo and was pleased to see that he looked completely content. It was only fair, given Leonardo's tendency to flirt overtly in front of Ezio. Indeed, as he watched him, he was still glancing at the bartender coyly and enjoying the smile he received in return.

Malik looked at Altaïr with an odd sort of cold attachment, his dark eyes, almost black, watching the movement of Altaïr's fingers idly tracing the lip of his glass, again empty of anything but melting ice cubes, pushing the straw back and forth in a purposeless circle. He shifted his gaze to Altaïr's face, noted the faint flush of his cheeks, the parting of dark lips in silent desire and intoxicated conviction.

Leonardo shuffled his feet under the table and captured one of Malik's between them, smiling his infectious smile. "Thank you for coming out with me, my friend," he said.

Malik nodded, pulling his gaze from Altaïr to Leonardo, watching the corners of Leonardo's bright blue eyes crinkle as he grinned.

Ezio tried to look anywhere but Altaïr's eyes. He felt alternately like cornered prey and stalking predator, a strange balance that seemed ready and waiting to tumble into frenetic power-play. Altaïr was quiet, sitting with his arms folded, elbows resting on the table as he pulled the straw from his glass and stuck it in his mouth.

Leonardo sighed. "We'd better go," he said, pulling his feet under him to stand and giggling as he rose. It was then that Ezio noticed that the limoncello was gone. He frowned, and Leonardo pulled the key to his Vespa from his pocket and adjusted his hat. "It's cold out there," he added. "Wet, too."

"Hey," said the bartender, approaching Leonardo as he dried his hands on a towel. "You don't think you're driving home, right?"

"_Well_," Leonardo began. "That was the idea."

The bartender rolled his eyes.

Malik sighed. "I'm driving... but I don't have room for your scooter. I didn't expect this." He lifted his eyebrows as though scandalized.

"My _Vespa_," Leonardo protested, then discovered he was no longer holding his keyring.

"I'll drive you. I have a pickup," said the bartender, holding the key, which was attached to a tiny plastic Vespa keychain.

"Is he giving you trouble, Desmond?" asked the bouncer with a wide grin, approaching and finally draping a heavy arm over the bartender's shoulder. "Do you need any help?"

"No, thank you, Bartolomeo," Desmond said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright," Bartolomeo said, turning to leave.

"Hang on," said Desmond, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket and handing a couple of larger ones to the bouncer. "Thanks for dealing with Warren. Have a good night."

Bartolomeo gave him a relaxed cub scout salute and exited the bar, opening an umbrella against the downpour.

Leonardo seemed mildly flustered. "You're sure it's no trouble?"

"It's no trouble. This is a rough part of town." Desmond paused and smiled. "You're way too pretty to get cut open out there."

Ezio, who was in the middle of putting on his jacket, tensed defensively and put his arm around Leonardo, who leaned into his chest. "It's okay," he said. "Anyway, Mal can follow us." He kissed Ezio's cheek and sighed against his neck, smelling of lemons and liquor, sweet and tart and positively oblivious to the shiver his hot breath sent down Ezio's spine. "Okay?"

"_Unf_," Ezio replied, buttoning his jacket.

Desmond grinned. "Don't worry. I'll get him home safe."

Malik put his hand on Ezio's shoulder. Ezio looked fleetingly at Leonardo, at Desmond, at Altaïr, and then finally at Malik, wanting to speak but unable, his mouth unwilling to form words, and so, resigned, he pulled his wallet from his pocket and handed his credit card to Desmond, who slid it through the machine and ran off a receipt for him to sign.

Altaïr caught Ezio's eye and handed Desmond several bills. "Thanks for the drinks," he said.

"Y-yeah," Ezio replied, turning up his collar, and then looked again to Leonardo.

Perceptive as always, Leonardo touched his arm. "Let's... Desmond, what kind of truck is it? Ezio and I will load my scooter..."

Desmond tilted his head with a wry smile. "If you drive off," he admonished, "I have his name. I'll call you in."

Leonardo did his best to look shocked, but his wide eyes showed only feigned innocence. "I would _never_," he said.

"Whatever. It's the Ford Ranger," said Desmond, tossing the key to Ezio, and Leonardo winked as he took Ezio's other hand and led him outside.

"_Amore_, what's the matter?" Leonardo asked as they walked under the awning, hand in hand.

"You're shivering," Ezio observed.

"I'm not cold," Leonardo replied.

Ezio smiled slightly. "I just..." He put the key in the ignition and turned the Vespa on, gave it just enough gas to walk it to Desmond's truck, then turned it off and leaned against the edge of the bed. "This... with Altaïr, with Malik. We've never done this before. Are you okay with it?" His words seemed to all fall out at once, tangling in a heap at his feet and dissolving in the rain as Leonardo looked at him, perplexed and drunk and wet and taking his sopping wool hat off.

"Ezio," said Leonardo after a moment in amused exasperation, setting the hat on the equally sodden seat of his scooter. "I've only been _trying_ to do this for... for _what_... six months?" He shook his head and wiped at a raindrop on the tip of his nose.

"I-" Ezio frowned. "I guess."

Leonardo smiled, touching Ezio's jaw, sliding his hand to grasp the back of his neck. "But if you don't want it-"

"I do," Ezio countered quickly.

"Then it's yours," said Leonardo, pulling Ezio closer, brushing their lips together, tentatively at first, then kissing him in earnest, and finally pulling back to sit on the wet seat of the Vespa. "How are we going to get this up there?" he asked, indicating the truck bed.

"If I had help, I could lift it," said Ezio. "Altaïr, maybe, or Desmond."

"Leonardo," said Malik. "Your bag."

"Your purse," Altaïr corrected helpfully.

Leonardo looked over his shoulder and went slightly pale when he saw Malik carrying his canvas bag. "_Ohh_," he groaned. "Thank you, Malik." He nearly fell when he tried to stand, and when Ezio caught him, he buried his face against a wet woolen shoulder, giggling.

Ezio sighed, and Desmond opened the tailgate and then the passenger side door of the cab. "Here. Go ahead and get in the truck."

"I don't _want_ to go in the truck," Leonardo giggled, picking up his hat and doing as he was told.

"I'll hang on to Leo's bag," said Ezio, "once we get this thing in there."

Altaïr rested his hands on the seat of the scooter. He'd pulled up his hood and looked once again withdrawn, menacing. In the yellow light of the streetlamp, he smiled, and Ezio tilted his head. He was about to reach out to touch the scar over Altaïr's lip, so like his own, when Altaïr nodded to the scooter. "You ready?"

Ezio swallowed hard. "Sure," he said, though his breath caught in his throat. He bent his knees and looked over the scooter, watching Altaïr adjust his position. Their hands brushed beneath the footrest; Altaïr nodded and the two men lifted the Vespa onto the bed of the truck with little effort. Ezio angled it, ever so gently, to lean against the side.

"Impressive," said Malik.

Altaïr smiled over his shoulder, then looked at Ezio and shut the tailgate. "We work okay together," he said.

"Sure," said Ezio.

"I'm stuck in a car," said Leonardo from the cab, and Ezio grinned, going to the door. Leonardo pulled him into a tight hug. "I'll see you at home."

Desmond climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key, then frowned. "I have to get some gas," he said.

"Okay," Leonardo replied complacently, kissing Ezio's cheek again. "We'll meet you there." He smiled, his short beard dripping in the rain.

Ezio bit his lip. "Alright. Call me if you get in trouble," he said, glancing briefly at Desmond.

Leonardo laughed. "Thank you," he said, and Ezio took a step back and shut the door.

Desmond drove off toward the gas station a few yards down the road, and Altaïr nudged Ezio's shoulder. "Let's go."

Ezio watched the pickup truck drive away, watched it turn into the parking lot, and nodded. He followed Altaïr to the passenger's side of a station wagon not far away.


	4. La Vendetta degli Amanti IV

Malik pressed a button on the remote twice, and the car's locks clunked. Ezio was about to open his door when Altaïr grabbed him from behind and shoved him against the car.

Ezio struggled, but Altaïr was stronger; before he could fight back, Altaïr's hands were in the pockets of his jeans, and thoughts tripped and flailed through Ezio's rapidly sobering mind: _he's going to rob me_;_ he's going to kill me_; _he's going to hurt Leo_... _they're going to hurt Leo_.

Altaïr was growling in his ear, aggressive husky words that sounded amazingly unlike threats, pressed up against him from behind, and Ezio shook his head, feeling his cheeks flush, feeling the adrenaline build in his system as his senses returned to him and he caught the end of Altaïr's sentence.

"... _fucking glad you're a bottom_," Altaïr murmured.

Ezio groaned as Altaïr pressed his hips into him, his breath quickening, his jeans tightening as Altaïr's hand slid out of his pocket, cupped him through the rough fabric, and squeezed. His hips bucked involuntarily and he gasped.

There was a sudden sharp bang on the window, and then it rolled down seemingly on its own.

"_No_," said Malik sharply, as if admonishing a dog, and Altaïr, out of breath, grunted and pulled away from Ezio, opening the door and throwing himself grumpily into his seat.

Ezio reeled for a moment, then opened the door and climbed in awkwardly, painfully. Malik turned on the stereo, which happened to be playing a particularly violent movement of Beethoven's Ninth, and stepped on the gas.

Altaïr turned in his seat, cheeks still flushed. "Unbutton your coat," he ordered. Ezio ducked his head and did as he was told. Altaïr groaned upon seeing the bulge in his jeans. "_Touch it_," he said, panting softly, and then Malik took a sudden turn, throwing Altaïr against the door.

"Leave him _alone_, Altaïr," said Malik testily.

Ezio closed his eyes to regain his breath, then dug in Leonardo's canvas bag for a convenient sketchbook. He flipped through pages and pages of drawings- anatomy, animals, architecture. A hundred pages of nothing but pencil sketches, studies of hands, of feet. Ezio was nearing the back of the book when he had to stop and smile at a sketch of himself, sleeping naked among tangled sheets that seemed to fold and crease on the page, to wrap around his legs and envelop his hips in three full dimensions.

He took a breath and returned the sketchbook to the bag, then leaned on the armrest to look out into the wet night. His jeans were still uncomfortable, but less so now. He watched Malik coolly steer the car one-handed, ignoring his turn signals until he looked in the mirror and noticed a police car behind him.

"_Hell_," he said, switching his grip on the wheel such that his fingers could reach the turn signal stem. "Couldn't have put the signals on the right side?"

Altaïr shrugged. "It wouldn't have worked. Your gear shift's here. Took enough to wire the cruise control to the right side _and_ get the stereo controls."

Malik sighed. "He's gone now anyway."

"Oh good." Altaïr turned in his seat to look at Ezio again. Although the hood of his sweatshirt hid his eyes, Ezio noticed the slightest frown written across his face. "I'm sorry I scared you," he said, then turned his attention to the controls of Malik's stereo. "Can I put on something a little-"

"No," said Malik, pulling up to a stoplight beside Desmond's Ranger as Leonardo waved from the passenger's seat, grinning and ebullient as usual, dancing in his seat to Erasure thumping in the truck's speakers.


	5. La Vendetta degli Amanti V

The two cars pulled into the parking lot of Leonardo's apartment complex and Desmond got out and unlocked Leonardo's door, then opened the tailgate. Ezio climbed out of the station wagon, shouldering Leonardo's messenger bag, and shut the door behind him. He stood again on the opposite side of the truck from Altaïr and they lifted the Vespa down from the bed, setting it on the ground. Ezio turned the key in the ignition and walked it to the bike rack, then chained it there.

"Thank you," said Leonardo, and Ezio turned around to brush off the thanks, then realized that Leonardo was tightly wrapped in Desmond's arms. "Will you come upstairs?"

Ezio frowned and sat on the hood of Malik's car.

"I've got to get home tonight," Desmond said apologetically, pulling back and sitting on the edge of the wheel well. "I have a class at nine."

Leonardo chuckled. "On a Saturday?" He shook his head. "If you must," he said. "Another time, then. But I do have an alarm clock."

Desmond smiled. "You have my number," he said, and kissed Leonardo's forehead, then went to the driver's side and climbed into the truck, backed out, and drove off.

Leonardo sat against the station wagon and smiled. "_Mm_. Ezio, do you have my keys?" he asked.

Ezio held up the key to the Vespa and shook it irritably.

Leonardo frowned. "No, I meant- oh, _fuck_." He patted his pockets and sighed. "My _keys_. The keys to the apartment."

Ezio shook his head.

"Oh, _lovely_."

"Which window is it?" asked Altaïr, but by the time Leonardo could answer, Ezio had shoved the messenger bag into his hands and was already on his way up, carefully stepping on window ledges, digging his fingertips into the cracks in the ageing mortar. He pulled himself up the side of the building and leapt to the side, one leg swinging dangerously behind the other before he caught himself and pushed the window above him open, then climbed in.

Altaïr watched this display appreciatively, contemplating the prospect of a race up the building.

Several lights turned on in the apartment in the intervening time. The window glowed invitingly.

"Leo!" said Ezio from the window, tossing the keys down to the street. Leonardo ducked ineffectually from the keychain and Malik caught it before it hit him in the temple. "Or not," Ezio added.

Leonardo led Altaïr and Malik up the five flights of stairs and into his large, disorganized apartment. The walls were covered with sketches, blueprints, printouts, paintings. In the corner, in an umbrella stand, stood several mailing tubes, capped and labeled with printed postage.

Ezio's coat was draped over a plastic-covered chair, his shoes beneath the seat.

Leonardo placed his hat on top of a chest of drawers near the door, on which leaned a stack of heavy-weight cardboard boxes, wide and tall and shallow, some full and labeled, some empty.

In the corner stood a lamp with five shades, pink, blue, orange, yellow, and violet, shining into the rest of the room cheerfully.

Altaïr pushed back his hood. "Nice place," he said. "Big."

Leonardo nodded. "My stocks paid off," he replied simply, leaning against the doorjamb to untie his shoes and pull them off.

The bathroom door shut and Ezio shuffled out in his stocking feet, his cream shirt untucked and hanging over the waistband of his distressed jeans.

There was a brief pause, and Leonardo smiled. "Where are my manners?" he asked no one. "Sit, please." He gestured to the couch.

Altaïr looked at Ezio, seated on the arm of a cushy chair, then sat on the couch. Malik sat beside him, a shy six inches away.

Brushing his damp hair back from his face, Ezio watched Altaïr, and was surprised when warm hands slid down over his shoulders, pressing against his chest. "_Grazie, amore mio_," Leonardo whispered against his ear, the short hairs of his mustache tickling Ezio's sensitive skin, making him shiver. "_Grazie mille_... _ti voglio sempre bene_."

"Are you Italian?" asked Altaïr, and Malik looked at him askance.

"Northern. From Toscana," said Leonardo, sliding his hand along Ezio's leg as he sat in the chair. He nestled his head against Ezio's hip and wrapped his arms around him.

"Because _da Vinci_ is a Polish surname," said Ezio, resting his hand on the back of Leonardo's head.

"Don't be too hard on him," Leonardo said.

Ezio grinned and looked at Altaïr, his eyes narrowed naughtily, trying to look vicious but looking instead like a debauched schoolboy, all long hair, round cheeks, full lips.

Altaïr stared back at him. Their faces were similar, Altaïr's more angular, more rugged, his lips thinner and expressions more severe. Their eyes met and Ezio's cheeks reddened.

If he thought about it, he could still feel the warmth of Altaïr's hands in his pockets, on his hips; he could still feel himself pressed up against the slick car. His jeans were dry now but they had been soaked, tight enough already without the further discomfort afforded by Altaïr's rough hands.

Ezio shivered and grasped Leonardo's shoulder gently as his mind ran in circles. Leonardo slid his hand under Ezio's shirt, caressing the soft expanse of his side, and then smiled. "We should... head to the bedroom," he said invitingly.

"But-"

Leonardo looked up at Ezio, his eyebrows slightly raised. "We should _head to the bedroom_," he repeated pointedly, then looked at the pair on the couch.

"_Right_," said Ezio after a moment. "Okay." He blushed and stood, looking over to Altaïr. "Join us if you feel like it," he said awkwardly, following Leonardo to the other end of the apartment.

Altaïr smiled slightly, then looked to Malik, who was staring dispassionately at one of Leonardo's more involved sketches, his chin rested on his lightly curled fist. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it, electing instead to touch Malik's lower lip with two callused fingertips.

Malik jumped and narrowed his eyes at Altaïr, who recoiled. "What was that for?"

"_I wanted to touch you_." Altaïr shrugged. "But I understand if I'm not welcome..."

Malik shook his head disparagingly. "You never understand, Altaïr. Your hands are covered in engine grease."

Altaïr looked at his hands and frowned at the volume of black collected in the valleys of his fingerprints. "I'm-"

"Sorry?" asked Malik. "You're often sorry, but do you ever do anything about it?" He smiled briefly, a real smile of amused affection, and Altaïr returned it.

"I'd like to." Altaïr nudged his leg against Malik's, turning toward him, and lay the palm of his hand on Malik's chest.

Malik flinched, but covered Altaïr's hand with his own. His dark eyes searched Altaïr's, and after he found what he was looking for, he nodded, his mouth dry and his palm sweating against Altaïr's heavy hand.

Altaïr crooked a finger under Malik's chin, wetting his lips nervously. He leaned close, pressing their lips together carefully, tentatively, and Malik pushed him back.

"I am not a woman, Altaïr."

"I... I know," Altaïr replied quietly.

"And neither will I break." Malik rested his hand on the back of Altaïr's neck, gripping the soft, tender hairs and pulling slightly.


	6. La Vendetta degli Amanti VI

Altaïr felt his breath hitch. He looked up to Malik's brown-black eyes and _laughed_, only for a moment, intense relief and sudden deep desire flooding him, settling into his body. He cupped the back of Malik's head and pushed him back onto the arm of the couch, kissing him hard, tasting his lips, his tongue. The residual bitterness of black coffee overwhelmed him as he breathed against Malik's mouth.

Malik groaned, lying back and parting his legs. He tilted his head and Altaïr's hot, wet lips claimed the base of his neck as his deft fingers hurriedly unbuttoned Malik's shirt and pulled it open.

It had been so long, over a year, but Altaïr's hands remembered Malik's lithe body better than he thought possible. He dragged his fingertips down Malik's sides, nails scratching red paths along the tight muscles above his hips.

"_Want you_," said Altaïr shortly, unbuttoning Malik's Calvin Klein jeans and pulling them down around his thighs.

"Yeah," Malik breathed, toeing his shoes off and watching them tumble to the floor.

Altaïr panted, pulling Malik's jeans off the rest of the way and throwing them on top of his shoes, shifting between his legs on the couch.

Malik grunted and grasped at Altaïr's shoulder, feeling the burn of thick denim against the thin fabric of his briefs. "Yours too," he said, and Altaïr reluctantly sat up and unfastened his ripped, bleach-stained jeans. He shoved them down and his eyes grazed over Malik's thighs, his hips, his chest. Malik reached up and pulled at the hem of Altaïr's sweatshirt, and Altaïr helped him pull it off, then straightened the white T-shirt he wore beneath it.

"Can I?" Altaïr murmured, cupping Malik through his tight black briefs, receiving a wordless answer in the form of a quick thrust against his hand and a sharp pant as Malik dug burning fingernails into the back of his neck. He watched Malik's firmly muscled chest rise and fall quickly, glanced up to his dark lips, bowed and exposing white teeth.

"_Just do it, Altaïr_," Malik breathed.

Altaïr groaned and slid his hand into the front of Malik's briefs, pulling him free, and Malik gasped as Altaïr stroked him almost too firmly. His hips squirmed on the couch and he hung his head, his cheeks reddening.

"_It's okay, Malik_," Altaïr whispered, shifting his tight bikini underwear down to rest below his hips and fitting his length along Malik's in his hand.

Malik closed his eyes and sunk his fingernails into Altaïr's upper arm, arching to meet slow thrusts, pressing up into the familiar grasp. It was all sense memory and suddenly he'd been shoved back in time, pushed into the mind of the curious teenager he'd been when they met. A needy mewl escaped from Malik's throat and he ruffled his fingers through the hair at the back of Altaïr's head, pulling him down for a kiss.

Altaïr panted through his nose and let his hips roll against Malik's as he focused on the taste of his mouth, the heat of his breath, then broke away to kiss sharp jaw and soft warm neck, relishing the scrape of the other man's rough dark goatee on his shoulder, the wiry sideburns brushing his face as Malik nuzzled closer, grinding impatiently upward and _fussing_, his heels digging into the couch.

"_Uhh_... n-not going to last," Malik groaned against Altaïr's neck. "_Really not going to_..."

"_Shut up_," Altaïr growled, stroking them together and rocking against the underside of Malik's heavy arousal, feeling the fever pace of his heartbeat in the thick vein pressing against his own shaft. "_Let it go_..."

Panting hard, Malik wrapped his arm around Altaïr's broad shoulders, burying his face in his thin white T-shirt, breathing the musty smell of motor oil and cheap cologne barely masking stale sweat. He felt Altaïr's pace quicken and gasped, his abdomen quivering as he lost control, spilling wet and hot on his stomach, shuddering when Altaïr followed with a soft moan seconds later, sitting up, hips twitching, chest heaving.

Altaïr leaned his shoulder against the back of the couch, smiled for a moment, and wiped Malik's belly dry with a tissue from the end table. He slid his hands up his friend's sides, watching Malik breathe below him.

Malik slid his hand up Altaïr's arm, feeling the contours of relaxed muscles which tensed slightly under his hand. Altaïr adjusted himself, wincing as he forced sensitive flesh into tight underwear, and Malik blushed and squirmed as he did the same to him.

Altaïr felt the gentle pull at the sleeve of his T-shirt and settled his body against Malik's, muscle to muscle, soft expanse of thighs resting together, flesh raised in goosebumps in the chilly air.

Malik nudged Altaïr's nose with his own and leaned down to kiss him, then rested his head awkwardly on the arm of the couch. Altaïr wrapped his arms around Malik's chest, breathing at the base of his neck.

They stayed quietly together for a long moment, until Altaïr shifted to lay his hand on Malik's side, under the edge of the black satin shirt which remained half-on and half-off, gentle fingers pinching a dark nipple affectionately. Malik fussed under his breath, and Altaïr chuckled.

Over the slowing thumping of Malik's heart, Altaïr heard breathy sounds from the next room, soft pleasurable moans and a tumble of rapid, passionate foreign words. He felt something in his abdomen stirring again, feebly writhing inside him, and slid his hand to Malik's belly, pressed his palm against the gentle resistance of tight muscle.

"You want to join them," Malik observed, tracing the shoulder seam of Altaïr's T-shirt with a fingertip.

Altaïr started to object, then gave up. "Yeah."

Malik smiled patiently. "If you like."

"I don't want to leave you here," Altaïr said, and Malik cuffed the back of his head.

"Why would you?" Malik propped himself up on his elbow, and Altaïr sat up. "I'll join you."

Altaïr's cheeks reddened and he grinned. "Please do."

"Alright." Malik held out his arm toward Altaïr. "Help me with this shirt."

Altaïr started to pull the cuff from Malik's hand, then blushed when Malik shook his head. "I'll do it myself," he said, starting to pull his shirt back on.

"_Shit_, I'm sorry," Altaïr said, straightening Malik's collar and buttoning three buttons at his sternum.

"Thank you," Malik said, and Altaïr nodded absently. There was a short pause, in which Altaïr looked at Malik with slightly unsure eyes, as though he might bite. Malik sighed. "Altaïr... please stop looking at me that way. Are we alright? You are not hurt. I am not hurt."

"Yeah," Altaïr said, feeling foolish.

"Then we are alright." Malik swung his legs off the couch and reached for his jeans, but Altaïr touched his hand and gently pulled it toward him.

"I saw how he was looking at you," said Altaïr.

"Who?" Malik sat as he was, allowing Altaïr to hold his hand.

"Leo." Altaïr lifted Malik's hand to his lips and mouthed his fingertips.

Malik pulled his hand free and laughed under his breath. "Leonardo is indisposed," he said.

"Fine. Then for me." Altaïr slid his hand under Malik's shirt, watching him stand and pick up the soft, dark jeans.

Malik turned on Altaïr, his dark eyes locking on the flush across high cheekbones. He looked angry for a split second, and then acquiesced, dropping his trousers at his feet.

Altaïr stood beside him, resting a hand on his hip. "Thank you."

Malik nodded and walked away, leaving Altaïr to catch up as he gently rapped on the door.


	7. La Vendetta degli Amanti VII

"_Ahh_... _entra tu,_" said Leonardo breathily, and Malik nudged the door open. "_Oh_..._ sì, Ezio_..."

Leonardo sat on the bed, propping himself up, gripping the covers behind him in a tight fist, his grey shirt off of his left arm and hanging at the elbow of his right. Ezio knelt between Leonardo's thighs, his shirt forgotten on the floor at his side, his tight jeans clinging to his hips, unzipped and folded at the fly, with his hand between his legs.

Altaïr peered over Malik's shoulder and felt his cheeks get hot. He remembered suddenly why he'd been so attracted to Ezio as he watched him rub himself, taut muscles flexing in his back, beneath his shoulderblade, the motion of his hand obscured behind his body but obvious as he sat up on his knees in front of Leonardo.

Leonardo groaned, arching his back, tangling his fingers in Ezio's hair, free now from the elastic that had held it back, hanging in his face. "_Ohh_... _mi dai_..." He tossed his hair, spreading his legs further, gripping the thick carpet with bare toes and squirming, panting hard. "_Sei bello, _Ezio... _non fermi_..." Leonardo shuddered and tugged sharply at Ezio's hair in warning, gasping as his hips twitched upward, closing his eyes and panting, looking almost pained as he rode the wave of his release. "_Ah_!..."

Ezio pulled back, coughing, and swallowed, resting his cheek against Leonardo's inner thigh for a moment, then looking over his shoulder at Altaïr.

A sort of dark ache lowered into Altaïr's abdomen as Ezio looked up at him with big brown eyes and wiped the corner of his mouth on the back of his hand.

Leonardo stroked Ezio's hair, then reached out toward Malik. "_Bene_," he said, relaxed, completely unselfconscious. "_Vieni qui_... _per favore_..."

Malik looked from Leonardo to Ezio, and then to Altaïr. "I think you're confused, my friend," he said, and Leonardo furrowed his brow and went pink.

"Sorry," said Leonardo, clearing his throat. "Come here, Malik... please?"

Malik shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of how little he wore. He swallowed and padded to the bed. Leonardo brushed his blond hair from his face, then slid his hands over Malik's hips, gazing up at him with a soft satisfied smile and friendly blue eyes.

Ezio shifted to sit on the very edge of the bed, nudging his jeans down his thighs and over his knees so that they fell in a pile over his feet. His dark hair hung in curtains on either side of his face as he cupped the bulge in his Armani briefs.

"You're a fucking spoiled brat, aren't you?" Altaïr smirked.

Ezio shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

Malik sat on the bed beside Leonardo, and Leonardo put a gentle arm around him and laughed. "That's a gross understatement," he said.

"Figures," said Altaïr. Ezio mouthed his lower lip and Altaïr laughed breathily. "Ought to make you beg for it," he said, giving Ezio's thigh a slap and gesturing for him to move.

Ezio shifted closer to the center of the bed and propped himself up on his elbows, sliding his feet out of his tight jeans. He spread his legs, bending one at the knee and leaving the other stretched on the bed.

"Take them off," Altaïr growled, pointing with his left hand at Ezio's expensive briefs.

"_Mh_..." Ezio slid his briefs down and left them dangling from his ankle. He curled his left hand on the thick duvet and looked up at Altaïr. His belly ached with prolonged arousal and he took himself in his right hand, spreading wetness down his length, groaning and pressing up into his own grasp.

Altaïr felt his breath quicken again. He'd wanted Ezio outside, in the rain, against Malik's car and on his own terms. He would have been satisfied to make him uncomfortable enough to do something about it in the car, and better pleased to make him lose it in his jeans, and now, here in Ezio's bedroom, he was the one being controlled, and that wouldn't do.

He growled, quickly shoving his briefs down, and crawled between Ezio's legs, smacking his ass and grinning in satisfaction when a red mark appeared on the younger man's skin. He dragged his fingertips up Ezio's thighs and kissed him hard, relishing the fullness of his lips, blushing at the taste in Ezio's mouth, groaning in pleasure when strong legs wrapped around his waist. Ezio pulled his T-shirt up, yanked it over his head, and Altaïr shrugged out of it and threw it down on the floor. He pushed Ezio's shoulders down and kissed a hot trail down his neck, mouthed a pink nipple and pinched the other between rough fingers, and when Ezio whimpered and arched against him, he nodded and turned him onto his belly.

Ezio panted harshly, getting to his knees, ducking his head. He wanted this, he reminded himself, though now that Altaïr was here, between his legs- now that he was unable to look into Altaïr's eyes- he was the slightest bit frightened. He closed his eyes and heard the familiar sound of a plastic and foil package tearing.

Leonardo reached over to stroke Ezio's hair with an awkward right hand. "_Stai bene, amore_?"

Ezio swallowed, his mouth again dry, body sweat-slick. "Y-yeah," he said, crossing his arms on the bed and resting his forehead on his wrist, naked and aching, scared but wanting beyond reason.

Altaïr had found lubricant and had used plenty of it; he pressed in with little warning and Ezio cried out, not in pain but in shock. He gasped and realized that he was pushing back onto the heavy heat inside him. A sharp slap on the ass brought the world back into focus and before he could ask for it, Altaïr was fucking him, shoving his knees further apart on the bed, the soft fabric of the duvet dragging and catching under his knees, irritating his skin.

He felt Altaïr's hand on his inner thigh, nails scraping a path up sensitive skin and then fingers grasping him too tight then relaxing only slightly, jerking him in time with violent thrusts. Above his head he heard Altaïr's heavy panting.

Every harsh thrust burned pain and pleasure inside him, the heat filling his body almost overwhelming, and then firelight flashed into his field of vision as Altaïr angled hard against his prostate, ruthlessly pounding into him.

"_Altaïr_," Ezio choked out, his body leaving all other things behind in decadent agony as Altaïr's rough, callused hand squeezed him. He arched his back and felt hot wetness on his arm and before long realized that tears were leaking from his eyes.

"_I know_," Altaïr replied, his voice a low husky growl against Ezio's shoulder. "But I wanted this. _All night_."

Ezio swallowed thickly and let out a quiet moan of pain and desire as he pushed back against Altaïr's heavy thrusts, each one stealing the breath from his lungs, confiscating it before he could speak, and so he nodded against his arms.

"_And I'm going to get it_."

"Altaïr," Malik challenged, but Leonardo held him back.

"He'll be okay," said Leonardo, placing a soft kiss on Malik's neck. He reached for Ezio's hand and Ezio grabbed onto his wrist, digging fingertips into tendons, panting and groaning. Altaïr kissed Ezio's shoulderblade and tucked his cheek against his back.

"_Altaïr_," Ezio repeated, his eyes stinging as sweat trickled into them, mingling with a modicum of tears, the low burn of painful arousal ramping up as though a blue-hot fire had been lit inside him.

Altaïr clenched his teeth and lowered a heavy, hot kiss onto Ezio's spine. "_I believe you_," he said, and neither of them knew what he was saying, or why he had said it, until he squeezed Ezio, stroking him from the base, coaxing him toward the edge and pushing him over with well-aimed pressure that made Ezio squeal in pain and pleasure, yelping, hips jerking weakly as he spilled into Altaïr's hand. Gasping for breath and digging fingertips and nails into Ezio's thigh, Altaïr jerked inside him, shuddering brutally with his release as Ezio shook beneath him.

Altaïr panted and slid out quickly, discarding the condom and falling onto his back as he wiped his hand on a tissue. Ezio curled on his side like a wounded animal, gasping to regain his breath and wiping the stinging tears from his eyes and arms on the bedclothes.

Leonardo looked at Altaïr askance and slid close to Ezio, kissing the back of his neck. "_Non piangi_," he said softly, and Ezio shook his head.

"_Sto bene_... _benissimo_," he said, his voice thick as he sniffed hard and wiped the sweat from his reddened eyes. "_Che bella pena_." He closed his eyes. Leonardo wrapped an arm around him.

"_Non ti credo_," he said dubiously. "_Cosa farai se non puoi camminare_?"

Ezio chuckled softly. "_Sarò bene_."

Malik sighed, lying back beside Altaïr. "That was..."

"_Good_," said Altaïr, folding his hands behind his head, breathing hard.

"Awful," Malik countered.

Altaïr frowned, the wind taken from his sails. He sat up, supporting himself on his elbow, to look over Leonardo. "_Ezio_," he tried gently.

Ezio turned onto his back and inhaled sharply through his teeth. "Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

"_Mm_. I'm smiling," he said. "I just can't sit up." His eyes still stung from salty sweat, and he rubbed them.

"Oh, good."

"Mm-_hmm _."

Malik looked at Altaïr and smirked, then whispered something in his ear that made his cheeks redden.

"I _guess_," said Altaïr, and Malik nodded, goading him onward. Altaïr sighed through his nose. "If you want... you can do it to me sometime."

Ezio giggled and turned over. "That's fine," he said, feeling lightheaded.

Leonardo turned halfway onto his back and tilted his head. "_I_ might take you up on that."

Altaïr almost laughed, and then he looked at Malik and noted that he looked just a little bit too pleased. "Are you really going to make me?" he asked.

Malik nodded. "I think so," he replied. "I believe I would enjoy that."


	8. La Vendetta degli Amanti VIII

Leonardo woke in the morning to naked, sleep-warm Altaïr spooned behind him, grunting softly in fitful sleep, and naked, flushed Ezio curled in his arms. His first thought was that he'd done something he should remember and regret; his second that he'd done something very good and this was his reward from some unknown divinity.

He lifted his head from the pillow to look at the clock and jumped slightly when a hand gently touched his hip.

"Forgive me," said Malik.

"Mm?" Leonardo yawned and shook his head. "Half-asleep," he said, sliding out from between his naked companions. He had gotten up in the middle of the night to put on a pair of boxer shorts, and he was glad of it now.

"_Mmph_," Altaïr grunted in his sleep, grabbing Ezio's side and pulling him close.

"I saw that you were awake," Malik said.

He still wore his black satin dress shirt and it was obvious that he had not slept. His dark eyes were bloodshot and he had clearly been keeping watch.

"Malik..." Leonardo met his eyes and frowned softly. "What worries you?"

"What worries me? My friend, everything worries me." Malik sighed. "Altaïr," he said after a moment, his eyes lingering a bit too long on Altaïr's naked body before he looked away. "Altaïr worries me greatly."

"I understand," Leonardo said, "but in what sense?"

Malik shook his head bitterly. "In the sense in which he has always worried me. He is impetuous and pushy, he will not- he cannot- take the answer I am prepared to give him."

Leonardo tilted his head. "Why do you speak in riddles?"

"Do you not like riddles?" Malik asked irritably. "I cannot be as unguarded as you. It is the difference between us. The trouble now is that I am very tired, Leonardo."

Leonardo sighed. "You are very tired because you did not sleep. My apartment is safe, Malik."

"Leonardo, do not badger me." Malik rubbed his eyes and curled his hand over his jaw to cover a yawn, then scratched his chin. "I will get by."

"You're sorely mistaken if you think I'll let you leave." Leonardo rested his hands on Malik's knees gently, and Malik flashed him an angry glare, which took a moment to melt away, but was no match for Leonardo's compassionate blue eyes, staring into him.

Malik sighed. "As you wish."

"_That's better_." Leonardo smiled and sat up slightly to kiss Malik's forehead. "Do you want any breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry," said Malik, his body seeming to sag with exhaustion. He leaned back against the headboard and ran his fingers through his hair, which stood up at odd angles.

Leonardo covered his mouth to hide a grin, but the telltale crinkles at the corners of his eyes betrayed him.

Malik frowned, and then jumped, surprised and tired, when Altaïr rolled over and wrapped a densely muscled arm around his waist and rested his head on his thigh.

Leonardo clicked his tongue and smiled. "_Oh my_." He climbed out of bed past Ezio, kissing tangled hair on his way, then headed for the kitchen.

"Shut the _fuck_ up and go to sleep," said Altaïr.

Malik sighed and watched Ezio stretch to his full length and then curl up in a tight ball, like a cat. He rested his hand on Altaïr's shoulder and Ezio swung his legs off of the bed, rubbing his eyes.

"Good morning, Ezio," Malik said, and Ezio jerked and looked over his shoulder. He blinked a few times and nodded at Malik, then stood and put on a thick terry bathrobe and shuffled out of the room, wincing as he went.

Altaïr groaned as he sat up and stretched. His brown hair stood up in tweaks at the side of his head and the folds in the pillowcase had left light imprints on his cheek. Diffuse sunlight poured in through the filmy white curtains over the window, backlighting him, casting shadows over his face; pinpricks of light shimmered on his shoulders from a soft sheen of sweat. "_Hungry_," he said. "Also... really have to pee."

"You'll want your underwear, then." Malik rested his head on the top of the headboard and stared at the ceiling.

"Yeah- have you seen them?"

Malik grunted. "_No_. I was too busy indulging your recklessness."

"Oh. Thanks anyway." Altaïr peeked over the edge of the bed. "Found them." He pulled them on and left the room, and Malik groaned under his breath.

He'd known Altaïr for so long; he was always like this. Malik knew that he, too, could be distant, but he had no pretenses about it.

"_Fuck you_, then," he said, tired and irritable, feeling heavy as he shifted to lie beneath the light covers of Leonardo's bed. It was a comfortable bed, expansive and very soft. He rested his head on the pillow and heard Altaïr's shuffling feet enter the room as he closed his eyes. "_Please_ learn to walk without alerting everyone within a two-mile radius."

Altaïr frowned. "Sorry."

"You are always sorry. Perhaps you would be better company if you thought about your actions _before_ you had to be sorry." Malik settled into the soft coolness of the pillow. Despite himself he relaxed when Altaïr climbed into the bed with him and stroked his side.

"Sorry," said Altaïr again, in that familiar goading tone, half-filled with laughter, that so angered Malik. He spooned behind him, then, and kissed the back of his neck past his silky collar. "I understand why you hate me."

"You understand nothing, Altaïr." Malik sighed. "I know of what you speak. How could I not? But I have forgiven you for that. For all things, Altaïr, I forgive you, despite my better judgment, and you prove to me on countless occasions that you deserve forgiveness."

Altaïr's arm tightened around Malik's ribcage as he staggered blindly through a minefield of tired platitudes, each sounding worse in his head than the one before. "Thank you," he said finally.

"_Shh_."


	9. La Vendetta degli Amanti IX

"Ezio!"

At the sound of Leonardo's voice, Ezio nearly dropped his bottled Frappuccino. He caught it, scowled as a few drops splashed on his T-shirt, and ran to Leonardo's office. "What? What's the matter?"

"There's a new episode of _Un posto al sole_ on _Rai_!"

Ezio narrowed his eyes. "I hate that thing," he said, indicating the semi-anthropomorphized seahorse waving cheerily at him from the paused video screen.

"I know. I'm sorry." Leonardo smiled over his shoulder, picked up a napkin, and wiped the spots of coffee from Ezio's T-shirt. "Sit?"

"Leo..." Ezio sighed and sat on the soft couch beside Leonardo. "I have to check your accounts."

"_Shush_. It's a Saturday, and I want to spend it with you." Leonardo rested his head on Ezio's shoulder.

Ezio put his arm around Leonardo's shoulders and rolled his eyes. "Watching a Neapolitan soap opera?"

"Watching a Neapolitan soap opera," Leonardo confirmed, kissing Ezio's cheek and clicking the big round play button in the center of the screen. Soon after, the episode started abruptly in the middle of a heated argument between Penni and Pietro.

"You know," said Ezio, "I like Dado best..."

Leonardo laughed. "Who doesn't? Though I have a soft spot for Fulvio. He's... _well_." He smiled naughtily. "_Very talented singer_... very attractive. He reminds me also of your uncle."

Ezio looked from the computer screen and frowned at Leonardo. "_Really_, Leo? _Aw_, no."

Leonardo just smiled. "Shh, Ezio. _Guarda_." He wrapped his arm around Ezio's back and pointed toward the computer monitor.

Altaïr tapped on the glass door of Leonardo's office with his knuckles. "Leo," he said, and Leonardo pressed pause, turning to look at him.

"Hmm? Oh, you're wearing _clothes_ again?" Leonardo sounded disappointed.

"What? Yeah." Altaïr scratched the back of his neck. "Thanks for letting us stay."

"You're _leaving_, aren't you?" Leonardo went to the door of his office and kissed Altaïr's cheek.

Altaïr nodded. "Yeah... I mean, unless you want to get dinner or something. Or we could get a pizza."

Leonardo smiled patiently. "If you want to bring a pizza back, that's fine. I have food here."

"Are you on a diet or something?"

Ezio laughed and dropped his glass Frappuccino bottle into the office trash can, and it landed with a clank.

"I'm vegetarian," said Leonardo.

Altaïr shrugged. "Okay, whatever. Do you want pizza, Ezio?"

Ezio looked over his shoulder at Leonardo, who rolled his eyes. "Go ahead," he said.

"Sure," said Ezio.

"I know you're into _sausage_," said Altaïr, lewdly. "That sound good?"

Ezio scowled. "Don't say that again."

"Okay. You want some _sausage_?"

Leonardo pushed Altaïr out of his office and shut the door in his face.

"Hey!" said Altaïr. "I was going to ask if we could borrow some clothes."

"_No_," said Leonardo, sitting back down beside Ezio to check his e-mail. "Go out smelling like sex. Order a sausage pizza. You'll get a laugh."

"You have worn out our welcome here, Altaïr," said Malik, slipping his shoes on. "I, too, have a paper to write. Unlike Leonardo, I _will_ finish mine. In addition, pork is _haraam_, but I believe you knew that."

"I didn't think you obeyed _halal_." Altaïr felt his cheeks redden and he frowned.

"You do not think," said Malik with a slight smile. "I do not. I have not since I was sixteen years old. We should go now, Altaïr."

"_Jeez_. You're a dick," said Altaïr.

Malik opened the door of Leonardo's office. "Will I see you on Monday, Leonardo?"

"Possible extenuating circumstances aside, yes." Leonardo smiled wickedly at Ezio, who went a bit red.

"Very well."

Malik was about to close the door when Leonardo hurried over to him and pulled him into a hug. "Thank you for spending the night," he said. "We should do it again."

"Of course," said Malik, awkwardly patting Leonardo's back.

Altaïr smiled from beside the door, pulling fingerless gloves on. "I'm driving," he said, and Malik scowled. "What? I want to drive. You never let me drive."

"Because you have your own car which you may break at your own risk." Malik sighed. "I will see you Monday, Leonardo. Thank you for your hospitality."

Leonardo smiled. "Have a good night," he said benignly, with just the slightest naughty smile, and Altaïr waved with his left hand while opening the door.

Malik pushed past Altaïr, and Altaïr shut the door and followed him down the hall. "What's the matter, Mal?"

"Your behavior is inexcusable," said Malik, taking the keys from his pocket and throwing them over his shoulder.

"I understand that," said Altaïr, easily catching the keys. "I just don't understand what I did to piss you off _this_ time."

Malik turned and started down the first flight of stairs. "You are rude."

"Understood."

"You have no sense of propriety." Malik jogged down the second flight, tailed closely by Altaïr.

"True."

Malik stopped at the landing, turned on Altaïr, and stared him in the eyes in the dim light. "What little compassion dwells within you is _perpetually_ misguided."

"I agree."

Malik's forehead creased and he grabbed the front of Altaïr's sweatshirt and shoved him against the wall. "You are, without a doubt, the most infuriating person I have ever known."

Altaïr lifted his eyebrows, startled, and pressed his palms against the wall. "That's... that's a big spot to fill." His fingertips twitched and a dull ache of inaction settled into his upper arms as he focused his attention on the fist gripping his shirt, the arm holding him against cold concrete. He swallowed hard and reached out, touching Malik's side, grasping the sharp blade of his hip bone, and with his other hand sharply struck Malik's arm to bend his elbow. He pulled the younger man against his body and kissed him, and he was surprised when Malik kissed him back. He was less surprised when Malik pulled away and started down the next flight of stairs.

Altaïr sighed and followed him. "I'll just... text Ezio and tell him we'll see him later."


	10. La Vendetta degli Amanti X

It had been _so long_. He knew why Malik still shied from him, knew that inexorable lust- edging sometimes into the darkest and most bitter love- and occasional burning hatred were inseparable, and it was not only because of his mistakes.

It had been a year since the gravest of Altaïr's mistakes and he knew that, despite what Malik might say, he knew that there was no forgiveness, no punishment harsh enough.

"_Altaïr_," said Malik, from the door leading to the outside. Altaïr pulled up his hood and hurried down the stairs to see Malik waiting by the passenger's side door of the car. He pressed the unlock button twice and Malik yanked the door open and sat heavily.

"Sorry," said Altaïr before he could stop himself. "I was... I was thinking."

Malik set his elbow on the armrest and stared out the window, and Altaïr sighed and turned on the car.

"_Seid umschlungen, Millionen_!_ Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt_!" shouted the stereo in a hundred voices, and Altaïr hurriedly pushed the button to turn it off. He sighed in the silence and jabbed the third button on the CD changer, looking over his shoulder as he backed out.

"What is this?" asked Malik as the stereo played back an odd thrumming beatbox intro.

"Just wait," said Altaïr, yanking the gear shift into drive and gunning the station wagon, which whined in protest.

"_Three, six, nine, standin' real fine, move it to you, suck it to me one mo' time_," the speakers thumped, and Malik squinted.

"What does this even mean?" he asked, resting his forehead on his hand.

"Shut up," Altaïr hissed.

"_To the window, to the wall_! _To the sweat drop down my balls, to all you bitches crawl_!"

Malik frowned. "Altaïr, please... that is really... quite obscene." He then noticed that Altaïr was not listening, and there was a distinctly nearer voice echoing the words. "Altaïr, _do not_ sing along."

Altaïr grinned, shouting along with the lyrics, deliberately off-key. He depressed the gas pedal more and signaled to swerve around someone's darling grandmother who was driving twenty under.

"_Altaïr_, I would dearly love to put my fist in your mouth," said Malik as Altaïr slid up to a stop light and a foot into the intersection, then backed up. Altaïr stopped singing for a moment, looked at Malik, and smiled.

"Kinky," he said, then looked both ways and ran the red light.

Malik curled his hand into a tight fist, feeling unreasonably angry as Altaïr continued to sing, quieter now, the sound of his breathing more annoying than the words of the song. "Altaïr."

"Yes?" Altaïr looked over his shoulder and slid into the next lane.

"_Pull over_."

Altaïr arched a brow, shrugged, and pulled into the more-or-less empty lot of an out-of-business thrift store that had once been a church. He stopped in a parking spot.

"Further. Into the alley."

"As you like it," said Altaïr, putting on the gas and turning into a dirt alley behind the building.

"Get out." Malik opened his door and climbed out, watching as Altaïr put the car in park and did the same.

"Do you want to fight me?" Altaïr asked, going to the front of the car.

"No, Altaïr." Malik reached out and rested his hand on Altaïr's shoulder, then yanked the hood of his sweatshirt back. It crumpled at the base of his neck and Malik nodded. "That... will do."

Altaïr squinted at the harsh light, ducking his head.

"You are guarded, my friend... as am I." Malik turned on his heel and returned to his seat in the car, and Altaïr rubbed his eyes and sighed, then climbed back into the car and skipped to the next song on the CD.

The pair passed the rest of the ride in silence, Altaïr continuing to drive too fast for Malik's tastes but not singing, not speaking, instead watching the road in front of him as Deep Purple played over the speakers.

"This is why you are always sorry," Malik observed as they climbed the stairs to the apartment they shared.

Altaïr nodded passively.

"Perhaps you would be well suited to think on this." Malik turned his key in the lock and pushed the door open. Altaïr brushed past him quietly. Malik caught the door on his leg, turned and removed the key, and shoved the door shut behind him with his foot. He tucked the key into his pocket. "I need a shower," he said.

"May I-"

"No, Altaïr," said Malik with a frown. "I need the time to myself."

"I understand." Altaïr sat on the edge of his bed and watched Malik step out of his shoes and nudge them out of the footpath.

Malik looked quietly at Altaïr, his dark eyes sad. "Again, I forgive you," he said, picking up his bathrobe and leaving the room.

Altaïr picked up the remote control and turned on the television. He pulled up his hood and stared upward, watching the multi-colored glow on the ceiling, as he fumbled in his pocket. He shoved the switchknife into his palm and pressed the button and the sharp blade slid into place, then pressed the second button and it retracted.

He could remember the last time he had used his knife. It was a dark night and he walked alone. His car was in for repairs after an accident that ironically had not been his fault, and Malik's was low on gas.

He had been on his way to a twenty-four-hour drugstore, skirting as he always did around large intersections, scrabbling up the sides of buildings and jumping rooftop to rooftop whenever possible.

He often thought he knew the city's rooftops better than the streets.

He came to a gap he could not cross, followed by smooth glass and concrete walls on all sides, and fitted the handle of his knife in his palm. He walked for several yards, feeling ridiculous and paranoid, and suddenly he had been grabbed from behind and thrown onto the ground by a man with a gun.

Altaïr remembered vividly how little he had feared in that moment. It was not until after he had returned home that he realized his life had been in danger.

Without thinking he had extended the blade and ducked into his attacker's arms, plunging the blade into his chest several times, thrusting and retracting until the man fell at his feet.

He could not recall running that fast before.

Later, at home, he took his knife apart and cleaned it- after he had returned with fresh gauze, after he had taken the time to treat Malik's surgical wound as he sweated in painful, plagued half-sleep.

Altaïr looked quietly at the knife in his palm, the checkered metal holding it tight and close against sweaty skin. He swallowed as he tightened his grip and the blade shot out the front of the handle, out of his clenched fist.

The shower door squealed and Altaïr quickly retracted the blade. He set the knife down on the bedside table and rested his head on the pillow.

"Altaïr."

Altaïr sat up and crawled to the edge of the bed. He peeked around the corner toward the bathroom door. Malik looked out at him.

"You do not speak Spanish. Why are you watching the Spanish channel?"

"Um... Rodrigo is confiding in... Manuel that he's been sleeping around on Pilar... and she just told, er... Rosa... that she's... embarrassed?" Altaïr gave Malik a nervous look.

Malik sighed and turned back into the bathroom. "She's pregnant, Altaïr," he said.

"Oh. Yeah. You watch this show too?"

There was no response, and Altaïr sighed and turned off the television.

Malik came out of the bathroom wrapped in his black robe, his dark hair wet, slicked back from his tan face. He pulled out one of the heavy drawers and rustled through it, then threw a pile of fabric onto his bed and shut the drawer with his knee.

He turned away from Altaïr as he slid his bathrobe off of his shoulders, and out of respect, Altaïr looked away. Malik let his eyes linger on his friend's flushed cheeks and shook his head, sliding his arm into a long-sleeved navy blue dress shirt, wrapping it around himself, then buttoning it. He shifted the collar on his neck and looked at Altaïr, untying the belt of his robe and catching it before it fell to the floor. "Where do we go tonight?"

"Anywhere you like." Altaïr tucked his legs beneath him and watched Malik pull a pair of dark boxer-briefs up over his thighs and backside and unroll the waistband above his hips. "Or we could stay in."

"I do not want to stay in, Altaïr." Malik pulled on a clean pair of jeans and zipped and buttoned them, then took his wallet from the pocket of his Calvin Kleins and replaced it in his back pocket.

"What do you suggest?" Altaïr rested his head on the bedpost.

"It is your choice." Malik sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on a pair of socks, then slid his feet into his shoes.

Altaïr sighed and stood, picking up the car keys.

"I am driving," Malik said. "And in any case... you are changing your clothes."

A small smirk settled on Altaïr's face and he held the keys behind his back. "Come get them," he said.

"I will not play your games, Altaïr." Malik lay back on his bed.

Altaïr frowned and pocketed the keys. He pulled his sweatshirt off, draped it over the back of a chair, and pulled his T-shirt off and threw it in his hamper, then shuffled to the bathroom. He turned the light on and ran the water hot, soaked a hand towel and washed his face, then shaved the dark stubble from his chin.

He looked up in the mirror and tensed when he saw Malik standing behind him.

"Mal... what's up?" He wiped his face and turned to see Malik holding a pile of clothes.

"You are wearing these," said Malik.

Altaïr picked up the clothes that Malik held out to him, furrowed his brow, and then smiled slightly. "Thanks." He set the clothes, some of his nicest, down on the counter, realizing how close Malik was to him in the cramped bathroom. He leaned against the sink and took a shaky breath. Malik smelled clean and masculine, like soap, fresh cedar sawdust, sun-warmed leather; his hair was drying, short strands falling to his forehead.

"May I have the keys, Altaïr?"

"_Uhh_." Altaïr fished in his pocket and pressed the car keys into Malik's waiting hand. His own hand twitched and he thought of kissing Malik's dark lips, thought of tangling his fingers in short-cropped black hair.

Malik smiled, satisfied. "Thank you." He turned away and left the bathroom, and Altaïr sighed out a tense held breath and leaned his head against the doorjamb.


	11. La Vendetta degli Amanti XI

"Leo." Ezio stared at his laptop, lying on the couch in Leonardo's office. When Leonardo did not respond, he cleared his throat. "_Leo_." Still no response, and Ezio sat up and looked at the computer chair in front of Leonardo's PC.

Leonardo's arm was rested on the desk, his forehead on his wrist. A lock of hair fluttered in front of his face with his breath.

"_Aw_." Ezio left his laptop on the couch and padded over to touch Leonardo's shoulder. "Leo... _wake up, Leo_."

Leonardo twitched and grunted softly. He scratched at his beard and blinked. "_Ungh_... how long was I out?" He yawned, then looked at the clock and whined softly. "_Fuck_, I will not finish this paper..."

"Aw, Leo, it'll be okay." Ezio kissed Leonardo's blond hair. "My mom wants us to come to dinner at the house tomorrow."

"_I_... ugh." Leonardo rubbed his face and nodded complacently. "Nine o'clock... tomorrow is Sunday, yes? I did not sleep through the night?"

Ezio laughed, bending to wrap his arms around Leonardo's shoulders, nipping at his neck. "No... it's still Saturday. Maybe you should come to bed," he murmured against Leonardo's ear.

"I am too busy, Ezio." Leonardo took Ezio's hand and lifted it to his lips. He kissed and gently bit his wrist, then let go of his hand and put his fingers to the keyboard, reading over what he'd written and starting a new paragraph.


	12. La Vendetta degli Amanti XII

Malik looked over his shoulder as he backed into a convenient parking spot along the curb, turned the wheel sharply, stepped on the brake, put the car in drive, and settled into an easy parallel park.

Altaïr frowned, looking up from his phone and his unsent text message. "I can't do that with both hands."

Malik gave him a sidelong glance.

"It was supposed to be a compliment."

"I understand. It was not a very good one... but I will accept it in the spirit in which it was intended."

Altaïr sighed and rested his head on the back of the seat.

"Relax yourself, Altaïr," said Malik. "Tonight I wish to have dinner with you, as friends."

"As friends," Altaïr repeated with a frown, guilt settling into him for the disappointment he felt.

Malik paused, examining Altaïr's face. "Do not read too much into my words, Altaïr. Would you prefer to live as we have for the past year? As roommates, as it were?"

Altaïr's mouth felt dry. He picked up the can of Full Throttle from the cup holder and took a long drink, then shook his head.

"Then we are on the same page." Malik turned the car off and let himself out, slammed the door shut and hurried across the street.

Altaïr followed him, narrowly avoiding being struck by a Volkswagen Beetle with a terrified high school student behind the wheel, and Malik opened the door to a dimly-lit restaurant. Altaïr swore under his breath. He wasn't sure why he hadn't recognized the building, the cream stucco walls and modern-style architecture, the green awnings and curtains in the windows of the upper level offices. He'd been here before.

"Are you alright, Altaïr?"

Memory brought Altaïr back to the last time he'd entered the restaurant. It was a Vietnamese place, dark inside like a cavern, the air filled with intoxicating and exotic spices. Altaïr's sinuses tingled.

"If you do not want to eat here," Malik began, but Altaïr shook his head.

"It's fine. It's just... been a while."

"Very well." Malik spoke quietly with the waitress and she showed the two men to the darkened booth in the corner of the restaurant.

Altaïr took a seat and rested his forearms on the table. The waitress turned their glasses onto their bases and poured ice water from a tall plastic pitcher. She placed menus in front of Altaïr and Malik, said she would return to take their drink orders, and left. Altaïr leaned on his elbows. He could remember sitting in the corresponding booth on the other side of the restaurant; he could remember Malik's warm, familiar weight on his shoulder, but he remembered a different Malik than the one who sat across from him now. The Malik he remembered, who had leaned on his shoulder, mildly delirious and still too numb to feel the anger of Altaïr's unknowing betrayal, was only a bitter memory, an open wound in time.

"I did not bring you here to torture you, Altaïr." Malik was staring into him, through him, with dark eyes, coffee-black and harsh. Altaïr knew Malik's eyes well; he knew when to look away and when it was safe to look a little deeper. He could see an invitation there now, a crushed gentleness that flickered occasionally like a guttering flame. Malik leaned closer across the table. "Or for you to torture yourself."

Altaïr nodded and picked up the glass goblet, swirling the ice water in it, and gasped when he spilled cold water down his arm.

Malik smirked and pushed Altaïr's napkin toward him. "You are a mess, my friend," he said. "I pray you: relax."

The waitress returned. "What can I get for you?" she asked. Her dark hair was coming down from a ponytail, delicate strands falling around her ears and temples. She was very pretty, with wire-rimmed glasses and a very white smile.

Altaïr looked up at her and smiled. "I'll have a Tsingtao," he said.

"I will have a pot of green tea," said Malik. "Thank you."

The girl smiled. "I'll be back to take your order," she said, tucking her pencil behind her ear, then going to the bar.

Altaïr watched her ass as she walked off, then turned his attention across the table. "Why here, Malik?"

"It is dark and quiet... the same reasons we came here the last time, Altaïr, albeit in different circumstances." Malik reached across the table and touched Altaïr's wrist. "In addition, you did not specify an alternative." A tiny smile nudged the corners of his mouth and he picked up his napkin, unfolded it, and placed it fastidiously in his lap.

Altaïr's arm stung slightly where Malik had touched it. He lay his left hand over it and sighed.

"In any case, I like Vietnamese food, and I believe you do as well." Malik settled back in the booth and looked out into the restaurant.

In the corner sat a young man with a middle-class English accent, talking on his cell phone and staring at a laptop. "_No_, mother," he said, typing one-handed and shaking his head. "I simply _cannot_ justify the leave, as I am the only person who knows what he is doing and the _entirety_ of the college would be just as likely to fall apart without me." He paused. "No, mother... I am... I act as the... supervisor of the computer lab. It is only a matter of time until I am asked to..." The young man groaned and took off his glasses, setting them down on his keyboard. "_Mother_, do you have any idea how much trouble it would be... _I understand that_, but... I will speak to you _later_, mother. Good evening." He shut his phone, then pulled a roll of antacids from his shirt pocket, peeled back the wrapper, and stuck one in his mouth.

"They are always interesting... the people in this city." Malik sipped from his glass, then scratched his chin.

Altaïr tilted his head. "How so?"

"That young man over there. He is the lab monitor at the university."

"So?" Altaïr scanned his menu. "How do you pronounce this stuff, anyway?"

Malik shook his head. "I will order. I know that you will eat anything with enough sauce on it." He turned his attention back to the young Englishman. "He is trying to get a teacher's aide position, but he has a tendency to get on the nerves of anyone who asks for his help."

"I can tell," said Altaïr. "He looks annoying."

"He is irritating," said Malik, "but can you not tell why?"

"I guess."

Malik reached across and closed Altaïr's menu and lifted his gaze so that their eyes met, sliding his hand over Altaïr's. "If you listen closely enough, my friend, the people in this city tell you their secrets."


	13. La Vendetta degli Amanti XIII

"I thought you were going to bed."

Ezio looked up from the shipping tape he held in his hand. "I was, but I checked your accounts first. You sold another painting, so I was boxing it up." He unstuck the end of the tape from the roll and stuck it to the side of the box, then unrolled the tape along the seam and slid his hand along it to seal it.

Leonardo smiled. "What would I do without you, Ezio?" He bent to kiss Ezio's hair softly. "You are so kind. So considerate. So... _rrr_."

Ezio laughed and shrugged Leonardo's arms off of his shoulders. "Also... one of the drawings. Leo, there's enough in your savings account for a trip to _Hawaii_."

"But why would I want to go to Hawaii?" Leonardo smiled. "You are right here."

Ezio smiled over his shoulder. "_Sì_, but I am not shirtless on a beach." He stuck out his lower lip petulantly, then grinned.

"_Ooh_. This is tempting."


	14. La Vendetta degli Amanti XIV

"Let us take a walk, Altaïr." Malik put on his jacket, then shut the car door.

"A walk?" Altaïr looked over the hood of the car. "Thought we were going home."

Malik's eyes flashed a dangerous color. "I wish to walk with you."

"Alright," said Altaïr, looking away.

"Very good." Malik looked down the street and leaned against the hood of the car, waiting for the traffic to pass. When several cars sped by and left a gap, he crossed the street again, and Altaïr followed him past the restaurant and down the street, under yellow streetlamps and blinding neon.

"Mal..." Altaïr felt his palms sweating, felt moisture collecting under the sleeves of his dark green dress shirt. "_Mal_. I don't like walking down the street," he said.

"I understand," said Malik, looking over his shoulder. "Give me only a moment of peace, Altaïr, and then we will continue homeward."

Altaïr sighed and folded his arms over his chest. A chilly breeze had set in. He felt the flesh on his chest prickling, his nipples standing at attention beneath his thin shirt, rubbing against the fabric. His cheeks flushed and he crossed his arms a bit higher.

"So speak to me, my friend," said Malik as he looked both ways and walked through a crosswalk.

"What do you want to hear?" Altaïr asked, following as Malik turned east, turning their backs to the wind.

"Anything you wish to tell me." Malik looked down an alley before passing in front of it.

"I gather that Spain is nice this time of year," Altaïr said.

"Try again."

Altaïr sighed and shook his head. "I have nothing, Malik."

"Very well."

The two walked quietly together for a time, winding further from the car, along an overpass. Altaïr stopped at the edge and looked at the highway beneath. He chuckled softly, resting his hands on the cool metal railing above rough concrete wall.

"What is it, Altaïr?" Malik turned and leaned against the wall to look at his friend.

"Ah... it's nothing. When I was a kid... my friends and I would come up here and drink... we used to throw the empty bottles off here." He shook his head. "This railing wasn't always here." He tapped the hollow metal cylinder with his hand, and it vibrated gently. "They put it here after a guy fell off... keep it from happening again, I guess." He let his gaze slide to the ground at his feet.

Malik tilted his head. "You are a strange person." He paused. "I gather that you knew this young man."

"I met him a couple of times," Altaïr said. "Stupid thing is... it was kind of my fault. I used to do it too. There's a ledge back there." He indicated a small balcony near the traffic signal at the end of the bridge. "Climb up that apartment building and you can get a running start, jump and grab the stoplight... swing from there and if you know what you're doing, you can land on the railing. I'd run along it till I got to the other end and slide down that drainpipe to the street." He looked at the cars below the bridge. "Kid wanted to impress everyone. Wanted to beat my record time."

"I would not say that it was your fault," said Malik, after a moment.

"I wasn't aware you'd gotten your doctorate in Morality," Altaïr replied tersely.

Malik shrugged. "If you wish, you may feel guilty. It is your choice."

Altaïr frowned defensively, then shook his head. "Forget it," he said. "Forget I said anything." He brushed past Malik, who caught his arm and jerked him backward.

"You are impossibly strange. I am not sure what ethical code you follow, my friend, but you have done much worse for money, as have I, and yet you feel guilt at having inspired someone to bend the laws of physics?"

"I never said I felt guilty," Altaïr said.

"You are no exception, Altaïr! You tell me more than you think." Malik let go of Altaïr's wrist and looked him in the eyes.

Altaïr swallowed, his mouth feeling dry again. "You know all there is to know about me, then," he said. "So why should you have me talk?

"Perhaps I was in a mood to hear the sound of your voice," said Malik.

"I..." A deep frown creased Altaïr's forehead, and his shoulders drooped. He stood in silence for a moment and Malik touched his shoulder, then headed off toward the alley.

Altaïr sighed, took one last look over the edge of the bridge at the blazing headlights and red glow of taillights in the dark, nodded, and jogged to catch up.

"We have known each other a long time, Altaïr," said Malik from several feet ahead. "If there is one thing I know about you, it is that you do not let go of old grudges. Particularly those you hold against yourself."


	15. La Vendetta degli Amanti XV

Leonardo woke, naked and tangled in the duvet, to the sound of church bells. He looked at the clock, groaned, fumbled through the covers to retrieve his boxers, then gave up and got out of bed to put on another pair.

Ezio rolled over and yawned. "_Mm_... Leo. You didn't leave yet." He smiled.

"_Ezio_, you turned my alarm off!" Leonardo narrowed his eyes. "You... you can be so irritating sometimes!" he said, as though it were the worst insult he could think of.

"I..." Ezio ducked his head. "I'm sorry. I like when you have time for me." He pouted, curling on his side. "I just wanted to spend a little longer with you."

"I am going to dinner with you tonight, Ezio, but it is _imperative_ that I finish this paper!" Leonardo pulled a pair of pajama pants on and pulled a T-shirt over his head, then glanced over his shoulder at Ezio, who lay on the bed, looking like a kicked puppy. "Perhaps you will learn something from this!"

Ezio scowled and turned away to face the wall, and Leonardo sighed, his shoulders drooping. He reached out to touch Ezio's side. "_Senti_... _ti amo, bello mio_..."

"I won't bother you until it is time to leave, Leonardo."


	16. La Vendetta degli Amanti XVI

In Sunday morning's quiet stillness, Altaïr rolled over in his bed to look across the narrow footpath at Malik's sleeping form. He thought, briefly, that he might sneak into his friend's bed, he might wrap a gentle arm around him and hold him as he woke.

"I can feel your eyes on me, Altaïr," said Malik, muffled by his pillow.

Altaïr frowned. "That is... _creepy_, Mal."

"It is uncanny, is it not? It is like I have eyes in the back of my head. You stop grunting in your sleep; I hear your blankets rustle; you do not stand up; you are not dead because I can hear your breathing." Malik grunted and turned over. "What do you dream of that upsets you so, Altaïr?"

Altaïr sighed and rolled onto his back. He laced his fingers on the pillow behind his head and stared at the ceiling. "You know what I dream about."

"Very well." Malik sat up and scratched the back of his neck. "I am around, if you wish to speak to me." He stood and padded off to the bathroom, and Altaïr groaned.

"_You know what_..." Altaïr rubbed his face with his palms. He leaned down to pick up his bottled water from the floor, uncapped it, and took a drink, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "_Ugh_." He then realized that he was not sure how long it had been there.

Malik returned from the bathroom, drying his hand on the leg of his pajama pants. "I would like to take you to work today."

Altaïr frowned. "Why?" He sat up and looked at the clock. "_Fuck_, I do have to work. Thanks for reminding me."

"I would like to spend time with you, perhaps," said Malik. "I am not sure why. Indulge me, Altaïr."

"I guess." Altaïr climbed out of bed and stretched, the soft brown hairs and white scars scattered over his chest and shoulders catching the light from the window, a few purple bruises along his hipbone dark in the shadow.

Malik tilted his head. "Your chest looks awful." He gestured toward Altaïr's hip. "And where did those come from?"

Altaïr shrugged and scratched the light stubble on his jaw. "Probably climbing," he said. "Pulling myself up onto a rooftop."

"You should be more careful."

"Mm." Altaïr picked up his jeans and dug a black T-shirt and briefs from his drawer, then shuffled out of the room to shower.

He closed and locked the door and stepped out of his low-cut underwear, then looked in the mirror. It was rare that he realized just how scarred he was. He slid his fingers along one of the deeper, thicker scars on his deltoid. He remembered that one; he'd gotten it in a fight at a bar for looking a little too closely at some other guy's girlfriend- not that she hadn't been looking back. He'd gotten one across his collarbone from the same stroke. The guy had made to punch him with a push knife and he'd ducked under it just in time.

It hadn't taken much to knock the guy down and flee; he'd wanted to continue the fight, but somehow it had been assumed to be his fault and the police were on their way.

He remembered cutting his hands to shreds and ripping his jeans on barbed wire when he jumped a fence to get away; he remembered stinging pinpricks at the back of his thighs when he reached a dead end and had to jump the other end of the fence. He had been more careful the second time, but drunk as he was, his balance had not been with him and it had taken a little longer to get over the top than it normally would have.

Pulling back the shower curtain and stepping in, he looked at his hips. They were bruised, true, but not as badly as they had been at other times.

He turned on the water and realized just how long it had been since Malik had seen him wearing so little.

The water was too cold at first, and then too hot, which was preferable. Altaïr closed his eyes and stood in the spray, letting the water drip through his hair. He braced his left hand on the wall of the shower and looked at the space where his ring finger should have been, then looked away.

He remembered that, too- _vividly_.


	17. La Vendetta degli Amanti XVII

He had been in the process of completing a job. Everything had gone as planned, until he found himself faced with thick-necked guards at the base of a narrow flight of stairs and a target gaining altitude. He had known at the time that he should abort the mission; there would always be another chance, but pride at the thought of completing a mission that had gone awry was enough to motivate him. He'd entered a crowd heading up the stairs and kept his head down as he passed the heavies blocking the way. It hadn't worked as he'd wanted, of course. They grabbed him from the tail end of the group and threw him onto the tile floor of the hotel lobby.

"We have a situation," he heard above his head as things went dark.

He'd woken up in a room with a quietly humming generator somewhere behind him; his wrists were tied down to a table in front of him, his palms dripping cold sweat.

He realized dully, as he sat alone in the darkened room, tied down, that his legs had fallen asleep and were in the slow process of waking up, throbbing and tingling hotly alternately, tied to the legs of the chair as was his waist to the chair back.

"He's awake," said a gruff voice from several feet away, and then there were footsteps.

The first thing Altaïr saw other than dark table and clammy hands was the chisel set near his elbow.

A smooth voice, almost gentle in demeanor, said "thank you, Tyr. I will take things from here."

The gruff voice made a small sound of assent and heavy footfalls faded into the distance, and then ascended a short flight of stairs.

"Do you know why you are here, young man?"

Altaïr shook his head, his mouth dry.

"Drink," said the voice, and Altaïr felt the edge of a straw touch his lower lip. He shook his head again and leaned away. "As you will." The glass clunked onto the table beside the chisel. "I believe you will want it, but be that as it may..."

"Why am I here?" Altaïr croaked.

"Young man, I believe you have information that I need. It would be wisest if you drink. You will need to speak to me."

"I don't have anything." Altaïr's palms burned, pressed tight together; sharp fibers of the rope buried themselves in his wrists as he tried to separate his hands. "I'm just a thief," he said.

"A thief of information, I think; risky information, given your firearm." A slim hand with bony fingers indicated Altaïr's pistol, lying at the other end of the table. He suddenly felt the emptiness of the holster at the small of his back and squirmed. "We can work something out if you will cooperate, my friend. You are working for the Zaccardi family, am I correct?"

"What will you do if I don't give you what you want?" asked Altaïr.

"_Answer the question_, young man!" A sharp backhand across Altaïr's face made him wince.

"I _can't_."

"If you cannot, then perhaps I can glean some information from your employer." The voice sounded disappointed, then almost bored. "It is so tiresome to go through this, young man." Thin fingers picked up the chisel from the table, then drew a mallet from somewhere unknown.

Altaïr writhed in his seat. He tried to move the table or the chair, but discovered that one or both were nailed to the floor. He felt beads of sweat form on his chest under his T-shirt, bleeding into the fabric; he felt the leather of the empty holster burning his lower back.

"I require your assistance, Tyr," said the gentle voice, and the heavy footsteps returned. Rough hands turned Altaïr's wrist and pinned his hand to the table.

Altaïr squirmed. The rope holding his ankles to the chair was rubbing blisters on his skin, pulling hairs. "_No_... damn it, _no_." He tried to pull his hand away but it was firmly pinned. He closed his eyes and felt the sharpened edge of the chisel pressing against bone. "_Fuck_..." His breath quickened and then halted in blinding pain. The heat of his blood covered his hand and flash-froze his nervous system, his entire field of vision filled with fading white. He gritted his teeth and a gasping breath filled his lungs as he curled an aching fist. He felt a rough towel being wrapped around his hand and a pained yelp escaped him as the fibers soaked blood from his wound. He saw something being lifted from the table and realized dully that it was his finger.

"Take _this_," said the smooth voice, filled now with ire. "Have it delivered to Emilio Zaccardi. He will know what to do with it. I will take care of this young man."

Altaïr's eyes slid closed and he slumped against the arm of the rough-hewn wooden chair, panting in sweat-drenched agony, the nerves burning in sudden disconnection. Sweat slid into his eyes and he shuddered, his body cold. He heard a chair move, then the dull click of the magazine being taken from his pistol, the soft clunk of the chamber round hitting the table and rolling a small distance before it was collected and pocketed; he heard the pistol drop on the heavy table, empty and useless to him. A moment later in the hazy dizziness of shock, he realized that his hands were free.

"I am finished with you if you cannot provide me with assistance." Footsteps faded into the distance and Altaïr groaned softly in pain as, with a shaking right hand, he bundled his left in the towel and shoved it between his legs, then went to work on untying the complicated sailor's knots restraining his legs.


	18. La Vendetta degli Amanti XVIII

"Altaïr... I do not believe that there is time for _whatever it is_ that you are doing," said Malik, with an odd hint of amused annoyance in his voice.

Altaïr jumped, disturbed from his memory, and realized that he was sweating, regardless of the water pouring over his body. "What?" He panted, feeling a strange twinge in his hand.

Malik laughed harshly outside the door. "Hurry, Altaïr. You are running late."

Swearing under his breath, Altaïr finished scrubbing his chest and back and got out of the shower, mildly disoriented and bewildered by his reverie.

"Mal, it's... it's not what you think," Altaïr said, loudly enough to be heard through the thin walls.

"I am certain that it is not," Malik replied dryly.

Altaïr wrapped his towel around his hips and opened the bathroom door to see Malik already dressed. He looked at the clock and groaned. He'd spent too long in the shower; he'd be late for work now.

He scrabbled into his clothing and brushed his teeth hurriedly, grabbed an Amp from the mini-fridge, and followed Malik to the car.

On the way to work he called Jason to tell him they'd had car trouble, and Malik laughed derisively in the background. Altaïr hung up and glared at him.

"The fuck, Mal?"

Malik shook his head and stopped at a red light.

Altaïr looked both ways. "There's no one coming."

"I am unlike you in many ways, my friend." Malik waited for the light to turn green and stepped on the gas. "In any case, you are a very bad liar, and should likely be ashamed of yourself."

"_Mal_. I wasn't doing what you think I was doing." Altaïr sighed and took a long sip of his energy drink.

Malik gave him a sidelong glance.

Altaïr groaned and slumped back in his seat. "_Fuck it_. Alright. You're a guy. You know that sometimes it's necessary. Are you happy now?"


	19. La Vendetta degli Amanti XIX

Leonardo pulled into the driveway and put his yellow Volkswagen Beetle in park. Ezio looked at him quietly. "I'm sorry about your alarm this morning."

"_Gesù_, Ezio." Leonardo shook his head and touched Ezio's shoulder. "Of course I have forgiven you. You need not apologize." He cupped the back of Ezio's head and leaned in to kiss his forehead lovingly.

"Okay. As long as you're not still upset." Ezio took Leonardo's hand and kissed it.

"Of course not. Now. We go." Leonardo opened his door and climbed out of the car, and Ezio met him at the hood and took his hand as they walked up the cobblestone path to _Casa Auditore_.

The door opened before they could knock and Ezio's older brother Federico pulled the two men into his arms, kissing each of them on a cheek. "_Ciao, ragazzi_! _Venite dentro_!" He backed up and ushered Leonardo and Ezio inside, then shut the door behind them. "_Come state_?"

"_Bene_, Federico. _E tu_?" Leonardo put a hand on Federico's shoulder and smiled at him.

Federico laughed. "_Sto bene. E tu, fratello mio_?" He turned to Ezio and gently punched him in the jaw.

"_Bene_." Ezio rubbed his jaw in mock pain. "Where's mama?"

"Kitchen," said Federico. "Are you surprised? She's cooking _pasta e fagioli_ and... a number of other things. She wants your help _tossing the salad_," he said lewdly, and Ezio scowled at him.


	20. La Vendetta degli Amanti XX

"Who was the man who dropped you off?"

Altaïr peeked out from under a Prius, his three left fingers grasping the bottom of the doorframe. "What?"

"He's _gorgeous_." The young receptionist pulled up a rolling stool and sat. "I want to know who he is." Her voice was accented, English but not posh.

"Roommate," said Altaïr shortly. "His name is Mal." He slid back under the car.

"Will I meet him?"

Altaïr grunted. "He's a little... prickly." He pushed the old oil filter out from under the car. "Make yourself useful, Maria. Hand me that filter, but be careful. It's full." He pointed to a filter a short distance away and Maria put it in his hand. "Thanks."

"I like 'prickly'," said Maria, leaning an elbow on the hood of the car.

"Mm." Altaïr rolled his eyes and screwed the filter into place, then slid out from under the car. "Off the hood," he said, and Maria sat up. He opened the door and yanked the hood lock until it clunked. He opened the hood and pulled a rag from his pocket to wipe the dipstick. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

Maria shook her head. "I'm taking my lunch. Karl's working the desk."

"Shouldn't you be, you know... eating lunch?"

"I don't have any. I'm a bit late on rent and trying to scrape for that." Maria brushed her dark bangs back from her face and half-smiled at Altaïr.

Altaïr busied himself with checking the oil level and carefully adding more oil until it was correct. "I know what you're going for, Maria." He took another look at the dipstick, nodded, and replaced it, then shut the hood. He wiped the sweat from the bridge of his nose on his wrist and left a small smear of oil there. "You want me to go to lunch with you so I can tell you more about Mal."

Maria shrugged. "Maybe I just want you to come to lunch with me."

Altaïr sighed. "Maria... here." He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his dirty jeans and shoved a five-dollar bill in her hand. "Go get yourself some lunch. I'm busy."

For a moment, Maria looked unspeakably offended, but her stomach growled slightly and she went pink and left through the bay doors.

"_Jesus Christ_," Altaïr muttered, sitting on the stool that she had occupied.

"Is the Prius ready?" asked Jason, wiping his hands on a towel as he approached. "_Haha_, you ought to look at yourself. Look like you've got war paint on."

Altaïr frowned. "Yeah, the Prius is done. Anything more interesting for me to do?"

Jason shook his head. "Slow day. You'll be the first to know. Everything alright?"

"Just Maria. Hitting on me." Altaïr rolled his eyes and went to his cubby. He pulled a sixteen-ounce Red Bull from it and took a long drink.

"Just _nail her_, man," said Jason, leaning against a cabinet. "She's like... an eight. And she's hot for you. Wish she'd look at me like that. I mean... _fuck_." He picked up a Nalgene water bottle and drank from it.

"That's not a very nice thing to say as her boss," said Altaïr.

"I'm not talking as her boss," Jason replied. "I'm talking as a guy. You, buddy, are not. I mean... what the hell _are_ you doing? Are you waiting for someone?"

Altaïr frowned. "You could say that." When Jason looked at him askance, he shook his head. "I'm going to go park the Prius." He let the jacks down and slid them out, then climbed into the car and put it in reverse, backed out of the bay, and turned into a nearby parking spot, where he sat for a moment.

He supposed it could be called _waiting_, but in actuality, it felt a bit more like purgatory.

He climbed out of the car, walked back through the bay, and threw Jason the keys. "I'll relieve Ryan on the corner."

After washing his hands and face, Altaïr went to the street corner and nudged Ryan. "I'm taking over sign duty."

Ryan handed him the five foot tall sign. "All yours, pal."

"Thanks." Altaïr watched him leave and leaned heavily on the "ten percent off oil changes!" sign. He stared at the cars passing by until they blended into amorphous blocks of color.

Altaïr sometimes forgot why he was in purgatory; given Malik's forgiveness he often thought he should feel relief. But it had been his fault, and all the forgiveness in the world, even from the one to whom he had done injury, could not rectify the harm he had caused.

He closed his eyes and rested his chin on the top of the sign; reluctantly, he let his mind wander back in time, as it often did when he had little else to do.


	21. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXI

"Kadar, you will take this wing," Malik had said, indicating a section of a stolen blueprint. "There should be little trouble there; you will keep the stairs clear for our exit. I will clear the north wing for you, Altaïr; your speed will be an asset. You can clear this fence with little effort, I believe."

"Very good," said Altaïr dryly, "but when do I get to clear a floor?"

Malik frowned. "Altaïr, I believe, as I said, that your strength lies in your speed and the efficacy of your execution. You will come in through this window." He pointed with one index finger. "After the floor is clear, we take these stairs." He ran the tip of his other index finger along a flight of stairs on the blueprint. "We should locate our targets in the office on the top floor; Kadar and I will assist you in finishing your task."

Altaïr scratched the stubble on his jaw. "And when I get to this guy," he began, but Malik cut him off.

"Take the first person you see at the door. Your knife should be of great use to you here. We have the element of surprise at our disposal, provided we expedite the first half of our mission. You should draw your knife, Altaïr, and quietly assassinate your target." Malik leaned on the back of the couch and scratched his chin, then dragged the pad of his thumb over his lower lip. "I believe we have done all that we can... now it is only the waiting."

"I will go and think about this," said Kadar, and Malik grabbed his hand and squeezed it, then let him go.

Altaïr nudged Malik's shoulders, pushing him back onto the couch, and Malik sighed and reached out. He pulled Altaïr into his arms, against his chest, and tangled fingers in his hair. "You are so impatient," said Malik against Altaïr's ear.

"_I know_." Altaïr kissed along Malik's neck, then carefully slid his right hand over his soft T-shirt and down taut muscles.

"How is your hand, Altaïr?" Malik took Altaïr's left wrist into his hands and inspected the mild bruising still present at the mostly-healed site. He touched the knuckle gently.

Altaïr squirmed. "Still hurts." He sighed and let his arm relax, and Malik stroked his wrist.

"It will feel better eventually, I think." He kissed the pads of Altaïr's fingers, then let Altaïr's hand rest on his shoulder.

"I certainly hope so." Altaïr nudged his nose against the base of Malik's neck. "_God, you smell good_."

Malik shifted beneath Altaïr, his breath fluttering through brown hair as a demanding hand pushed his T-shirt up and gentle mouth and white teeth teased dusky nipples. "_Altaïr_, we do not have the time... we... we must leave in- _ohh_..."

"_You're so hot_, Mal." Altaïr mouthed along Malik's sternum and lapped at the edge of his ribcage.

"Altaïr, I do _not _want to do this before the... _oh_... _Altaïr_..."

"Would you rather do it after?" Altaïr laughed against tanned skin, his fingers struggling with the button of Malik's jeans.

Malik's fingers fisted in Altaïr's hair and he laughed softly. "That is a good point," he breathed, and then, on the end table, Altaïr's phone vibrated noisily.

"_Jesus_." Altaïr groaned and crawled up on top of Malik, sliding their legs together in rough black denim, then picked up his phone and flipped it open. "Go ahead." He waited and brushed Malik's hair back from his face with a fingertip, then looked flustered. "_Shit_. Alright. We'll be there."

He closed the phone and Malik looked up at him, perplexed. "They changed the time of the meeting. They're _en route_ and heavily guarded." He sat up and slid his feet into his shoes, yanked the laces tight, and pulled on a dark overshirt. "It's best we get in before they do. Lots of empty space on that plan," he said, gesturing to the blueprint with his aching left hand.

The color had drained somewhat from Malik's face as he pulled on a black jacket and tied his shoes. "Kadar! We go," he said shortly, and after only a brief time, Kadar returned from his bedroom, pulling a black knit cap on and tossing one each to Malik and Altaïr.

Altaïr drove. The silver coupe blended with the traffic and in the parking lot; it was dirty and brown; the plan had been to change the plates and take it through a car wash after the job.

The three men went around to the back of the building and climbed the fence, and Malik and Kadar scaled the scaffolding until they reached the third floor. Malik took a flashlight from his belt and used a metal nub on the end of it to shatter the window, then dropped it the three stories into Altaïr's waiting gloved hands.

Altaïr swore softly and shook his left hand. He threw the flashlight into the dumpster, pulled his hat down a bit more, then followed his companions up the scaffolding. Climbing was more difficult since he had lost his finger; the muscles pulled and stretched noticeably differently and his wrist ached by the time he reached the third floor.

"Altaïr, come quickly!" shouted Kadar. Altaïr pulled himself to climb over the broken glass still in the window frame; it sliced a hole in his shirt and frayed a line down the thigh of his jeans. Kadar took his hand and pulled him in through the window.

Altaïr brushed a few shards of glass from his jeans and swore when he saw a bit of blood. "Thanks, man. Where's Malik?"

"He is waiting in the hall. I will watch the staircase. He would like you to wait with him." A glow of admiration burned hot in Kadar's eyes, regardless of the nervousness in his smile.

"I will." Altaïr turned from Kadar and joined Malik in the hall.

Malik looked at Altaïr and with shaking fingers touched his lower lip softly. "I trust you to do what you must, Altaïr. Get the hard drive. Kadar and I will ensure a safe getaway; it is for you to begin your part of the mission on your own, and we will meet you at the finish."

"I'll see you there, Mal." Altaïr looked into Malik's dark eyes, touched his shoulder, and made his way up the staircase to the top floor. He listened at the door, and when he heard nothing, pulled a key from his pocket. He said a silent prayer as he slid it into the lock and gingerly turned it.

The informant had had it right. The lock shuddered and clicked, allowing Altaïr entrance to the top-floor office.

He crept in through the door, closed and locked it, and tucked himself into a nook beside a filing cabinet in an adjoining room, focusing his attention on the silence beneath his feet and the dark of the room around him until his eyes adjusted and things looked a bit brighter. He shoved his knife into the palm of his hand and tightened his grip until the stiff blade slid and clicked into place.

His heart thumped hard in his chest upon hearing a key catch the lock. He pressed his body tight against the cabinet and pulled a small hand mirror from his back pocket, in which he watched the door swing open.

Altaïr watched as two people pulled chairs out from around the desk, and a third seated himself in a leather-upholstered chair behind it, laying his jacket down with an odd clunk. Two big heavy men in black T-shirts stepped in and stood behind the three others; one of them shut the door. Altaïr tried to still his breathing and closed the mirror and pocketed it.

"Do you have the hard drive?" asked the man seated nearest Altaïr, a broad man with a short beard and thick black eyebrows. The man behind the desk pulled an external hard drive from his jacket pocket, then replaced it there.

"Have you the money?" The man behind the desk took his hat off and set it on the desk. Altaïr knew his voice.

He heard soft scuffling, muffled groans beneath him. He swallowed and closed his eyes, then opened them reluctantly to see those thin fingers, skin over bones, flexing and knitting together as the man slid his hands behind his head and the bearded man pulled a roll of bills from his pocket.

He saw red and tried to shake it off, but a sudden twinge where his knife rested shot up his arm and into his chest. He closed the distance between himself and the thin man in only two quick steps, and before the other man could speak, could move, Altaïr's knife had slid into his armpit and twisted. "_Fucker_, you took my finger!"

He yanked his blade from flesh as the thin man grabbed at his arm ineffectually, the color drained from his face and quantities of blood spilling from the wound. Before he could grab the jacket and hard drive, before he could turn on the others, who had risen from their seats, he was seized by the two heavies. He struggled, his fist tensed, and got his left arm free to leave a nasty slice in the abdomen of the one holding his right side. He kicked and squirmed and they nearly dropped him, but they were too strong and he was too panicked.

The door swung open as the bearded man grabbed the thin man's jacket from the desk.

"_Altaïr_!" Kadar took his pistol from his pocket and leveled it at one of the guards holding Altaïr. Before he could shoot, the guards had thrown Altaïr from the window.

Time seemed to slow as he fell four stories, writhing and trying to turn himself to land on anything other than his spine. He had heard that such falls were survivable, but he had never tried it himself. He heard a gunshot, then two, as he twisted his body to catch himself on his hands and knees.

He stood and turned to look up to the window, adrenaline pumping in his veins. There were no handholds, no way to get up to the top floor; a dizzy panic settled into his chest. He could hear sound above him, but only the faintest snatches made it into his mind.

He picked up his scuffed knife from the pavement and clung to its handle with an abraded hand, then looked around him. A small clutch of black-clad guards were coming toward him from the right and to the left and front was a high brick wall. His body didn't seem to want to move but finally, with a jerk, he got his legs and arms to coordinate; he ran up the face of the wall in front of him and caught the top of the left wall, then swung over it and ran.

A dull tingling settled into his sinuses. He hardly knew where he was going until he ended up at the apartment, and shaking and scared, locked the door and shoved a chair under the handle.

He took a shower, then; he washed the blood from his hands and threw away his shirt. He wrapped his towel around himself and took six aspirins; he drained his flask completely of whiskey as he lay in the bed he had shared with Malik.

He lay awake, numb, his chest burning and his stomach writhing, until the whiskey kicked in.

Everything had been comfortably black for a length of time when Altaïr heard a heavy fist pounding at the door. His body tensed before he realized what was happening.

He got out of bed, his feet shuffling along the carpet; a key turned in the lock and he felt his breath quicken as he stood clutching a towel around his hips, drunk and dazed, in the living room.

The chair caught the carpet and held the door back.

"_Altaïr_!" shouted Malik's voice from the other side of the door. "I know that you live!"

Altaïr's heart rate seemed to double as he stumbled to the door and kicked the chair out of the way. "Malik," he choked out, and the door opened and banged roughly against the chair lying on the ground.

Malik looked at him for only a moment, his eyes bloodshot, then looked away, grasping his left arm, holding it against himself.

"Oh God, Mal..." Altaïr swallowed thickly and followed Malik's gaze to his left arm, which was wrapped with a rough tourniquet, a strip of something nondescript and blood-sodden. Beneath that, his jacket was sliced open. A deep wound, white in the center, showed through the rip in the fabric; Malik's hands, too, were soaked in blood. "_Fuck_, we- we have to get you to the hospital, now!"

Malik took a long, deep breath and sighed it out. "There is something else first, Altaïr."

"You're _bleeding_, Mal!"

"It is more important that we finish this, as I have finished your task!" Malik shouted as he drew the hard drive from his pocket. He swallowed and shook his head. "Kadar is dead, Altaïr!"

The earth seemed to stop spinning.


	22. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXII

Altaïr leaned heavily on the sign he held, curling a fist at the edge of it. He cursed the sting in his eyes, the ache of the weight in his chest. He hunched his shoulders and pulled an earphone from his pocket, put it in, and hit play on his mp3 player.

He shuffled through a chunk of songs, several of which were tiresome and the rest of which cut a little too deep, and finally settled on The Offspring.

His shift passed slowly as thoughts of the past flitted through his mind; the intervening year seemed alternately torturously long and blindingly short. He had driven Malik to pick up Kadar's body; he had taken him to the drop site, and then, finally, to the hospital; he had sat, silent and aching, in the waiting room, waiting for word on the life of the man who meant more to him than any other.

He had seen him, briefly, before his surgery. He had followed the doctors, begging for information, and Malik, drugged out of his mind, had feebly pulled him down by his collar and _kissed him_, and in every moment afterward, the lingering sting on his lips felt like a kiss of death.

He checked his watch and hauled the sign into the office and leaned it against the desk, then clocked out.

"Al, are you alright?" asked Maria, typing rapidly.

Altaïr leaned down and looked at the computer screen. "You're not supposed to be on Facebook. How was lunch?"

Maria held up her middle finger and Altaïr shook his head and entered the bay.

"Jason! I'm out."

"Peace," said Jason from across the garage. "Still not going to nail Maria?"

"See you tomorrow," said Altaïr, exiting through the bay door and sitting heavily on the sidewalk outside. He dug in his pockets and found a crushed package of cigarettes, groaning in relief at finding a lighter and a few Marlboros left in the wrapping.


	23. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXIII

Maria Auditore wrapped her arms around her son's hips and rested her cheek against his shoulderblade as he poured olive oil into a cruet and capped it. "I'm so glad to see you, Ezio."

Ezio smiled and shook the dressing. "I'm glad to see you, too, mamma." He set it down beside a massive bowl of lettuce and went to work on slicing the tomatoes while his mother went to the fridge.

They were alone in the kitchen; everyone else had headed to the living room. Leonardo had brought his laptop and was working on his paper, and Federico was talking loudly and animatedly about something indistinct. All Ezio could make out was that it seemed to include fire, and knowing Federico and his friends, it was easy to infer that there was alcohol involved.

Maria pulled two chilled bottles of white wine from the refrigerator and set them on the table. "You know, baby, I was thinking of something." She went to the drawer and got a corkscrew. "I'm certain you remember, some years ago, when I said that you should find an _outlet_?"

Ezio looked over his shoulder and frowned. "Uh... yeah. I remember. Leo overheard you and thought it was _hilarious_."

"Yes, well," Maria mused, "that is the thing of it. I look at you and... I look at Leonardo... and I think that that is not exactly what I meant."

Ezio blanched. "_Mother_...!"

"I am happy for you nonetheless!" Maria assured him. "Take the salad to the table, please."

The front door opened and Ezio peeked around the corner to see his father Giovanni. His long brown hair was pulled back from his face in a ponytail, and he wore a long dark vertically-striped suit jacket open over brown slacks and a blood-red dress shirt. He took off his sunglasses. "Ezio, _figlio mio_!" He held his arms out and Ezio put the salad on the table and jogged over to hug him. "How are you, my boy?" Giovanni asked, kissing his son on both cheeks.

Ezio smiled and hugged him tightly. "_Bene_."

Giovanni took his son's shoulders in his hands and smiled. "It is so good to see you."

"And you as well, papa." Ezio smiled.

Federico smiled up at his father, his heels resting on the coffee table. "Ezio's sugar daddy bought him a _car_."

Ezio's cheeks reddened. "_Federico_," he hissed.

Leonardo giggled softly.

"Er..." Giovanni looked very uncomfortable for a moment.

"It's a Dodge Charger, apparently," said Federico. "Brand new."

Giovanni lifted his eyebrows and looked appraisingly at Leonardo. "I had no idea," he said.

Leonardo went a bit pink. "It made him _so happy_," he said. "I love to see him happy."

Ezio squirmed and took refuge in the kitchen, and then in the dining room when his father entered the kitchen to speak to Maria.

"I think this may be getting out of hand," he heard his father say.

"What on earth are you talking about, Giovanni? And it's very nice to see you as well," Maria said.

Giovanni sighed. "My love... Leonardo has bought our son a _car_. It was enough that they should begin... _whatever it is_ that they do... after I commissioned him for our family portrait-"

"Would you say the same if he had begun a relationship with Claudia?" Maria asked.

There was a pause, in which Ezio knew that his father had blanched. He stammered for a moment, then groaned, muffled into his hands. "She's a little young for him!"

"And a little bit female, as well!" Maria laughed. "_Giovanni_, my darling... please try to take this into consideration. You see how happy they are together."

"And I worry that, er... perhaps our son is being... _paid off_?" Giovanni said hesitantly.

Maria laughed again. "You do not think that our son can take care of himself? Leonardo _spoils_ him... because he loves Ezio, and because Ezio loves him. You worry too much, Giovanni."

Ezio went to retrieve the lasagna from the kitchen, and his mother smiled dotingly at him as she untied the ribbon holding Giovanni's hair back, then slid her hands around his waist beneath his jacket. Ezio paused mid-step, frowned, and left as quickly as he could with the casserole.

He shuffled into the living room and sat beside Leonardo, whose computer sat forgotten on the table as he talked to Federico.

"_Yes_, but how did he get it out?" Leonardo asked incredulously.

Federico laughed. "He said it took him _four hours_... and voided the warranty. So now he's got his mom's old phone and it doesn't work great. Doesn't even have a camera. On the plus side I'm not getting pictures of his nutsack at four in the morning anymore."

Leonardo giggled and picked up his wine glass. "_Mm_. You know, yes... at four in the morning, I think even I would mind this."


	24. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXIV

Altaïr looked up as the station wagon slowed to a halt in front of him.

"_Altaïr_. Put out that cigarette." Malik unlocked the doors and Altaïr ground out the cigarette on the concrete, then dropped it in the ashtray near the door. "Thank you."

"Didn't you smoke?" asked Altaïr irritably, climbing into the passenger's seat.

"In a past life," said Malik, putting the car in drive and pulling out of the parking lot.

Altaïr sighed. "I see."

"In any case," Malik said as he pulled up to a stop sign, "I thought you had quit smoking some time ago."

"I... did." Altaïr shrugged. "I found a pack in my coat."

Malik looked over at Altaïr and gave him half a smile. "I see." He paused as he took a careful right turn. "We have been invited out tomorrow night by Leonardo and Ezio... are you interested in going?"

"Er... sure," said Altaïr.

"Leonardo will be pleased," said Malik, and Altaïr was sure he had heard a note of lechery in his voice.


	25. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXV

"_Then_ somehow a fire got started in the kitchen... but Ryan saved the day when he actually _puked it out_." Federico took another long drink of wine and had to put his glass down mid-sip because he began laughing.

Leonardo giggled, leaning on the arm of the couch. "Federico, your friends... they are ridiculous!"

Giovanni sighed, giving Federico an irritated glance as he passed through the living room and started upstairs to retrieve his two younger children. He was almost knocked over by one of them, a boy in a yellow polo shirt, barreling down the stairs.

He was twelve, but acted much younger, sheltered by his parents due to allergies and frequent severe asthma attacks. He had been sick as a small child, but it was clear to everyone except his parents that he was now merely overprotected.

"_Petruccio_, be careful!" said Maria, raising her eyebrows and covering her mouth delicately.

"_Zio _Mario is here!" said Petruccio, opening the door excitedly. "And he's got a _motorcycle_!"

"Oh... good," said Giovanni from the upstairs hall. He banged on one of the bedroom doors. "Claudia! Come downstairs!"

"_Petie_, my boy!" The voice, loud and booming, rattled in Leonardo's ears as a broad-shouldered leather-clad man entered the house and scooped Petruccio into his arms; Federico stumbled to his feet, tipsy on wine and having eaten little, to hug him as well.

Leonardo recognized him as Ezio's uncle; he was Giovanni's brother and had sat for the portrait with the family, but had been out of the country, at the old Auditore villa in Firenze, under some kind of vaguely shifty circumstances.

"Leonardo, _amico mio_!" said Mario, roughly pulling Leonardo to his feet and hugging him against the cold leather of his jacket.

Leonardo squirmed for a moment, then relaxed and hugged Mario. "It is good to see you, _signor_ Auditore!"

"And you as well, my boy. Where is Claudia?" Mario took off his jacket and handed it to Ezio, who hung it over the back of a chair.

"She's in her bedroom," said Giovanni, pushing his cuffs up over his elbows. "Her boyfriend broke up with her over Facebook, and apparently the world has ended because of this." He folded his arms over his chest. "You have a motorcycle, I hear."

Mario grinned. "Yeah. It's _great_. Just got it when I came back from Firenze."

Giovanni frowned. "That's one way to make a discreet reentry."

"_Fratellino_ Giovanni, I have missed you also," said Mario, cuffing his younger brother on the shoulder and pulling him in for a hug. When Giovanni pulled back, Mario smiled at Petruccio, who was still at his side. "_Hey_, I have an idea, Petie... do you want to go for a ride?"

Maria frowned from the doorway to the kitchen. "I don't think that's-"

"I'm _allergic_ to fast things," said Petruccio, rolling his eyes and sighing disgustedly.

"_Oh_. Well, fine then." Mario frowned slightly at his sister-in-law and ruffled Petruccio's long brown hair.

"Come sit, please, Mario. Dinner is nearly on the table." Maria gestured to the dining room, and Petruccio took Mario's hand to lead him in.


	26. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXVI

Malik swallowed, sitting on the edge of his bed and watching Altaïr sleep. He slept at odd times; often he would nap when he arrived at the apartment after work, sometimes staying up instead through the night and cooking breakfast in the morning before Malik left for the university.

Altaïr looked strangely innocent when he slept; the harsh smirk that he so often wore was gone from his face. Nightmares troubled him when he was near waking, but the rest of his sleep was spent in peace, more or less.

Malik picked up his water glass from the nightstand and sipped quietly. An odd rush of memory came over him as Altaïr twitched and started to grumble softly.

He remembered one night in particular, a short time after the incident in which he had lost his arm and his brother.

Plagued by nightmares, in a cold feverish sweat, he had turned onto his back. He expected Altaïr to be awake as he had been every night, to be alert to speak to him, to distract him from the pain, but Altaïr had slumped against the back of the chair from which he kept watch, taken out for the count by exhaustion and stress.

As much as Malik resented him- and perhaps even hated him- at that moment, he had seen a glimpse of the Altaïr he knew before everything had gone to hell.

He sighed out a held breath and cursed the stinging in his sinuses, blaming the pulling of his stitches for the tears in his eyes. He could not reach Altaïr's hand, dangling from the arm of the chair, although he tried reflexively and the stitches pulled again, tighter and more painfully. He swore through clenched teeth.

It was not as though things had gone to hell entirely that day. Indeed, they had begun to fall apart when he and Altaïr were approached by the Zaccardi family to do a few mercenary jobs; small tasks, usually, but Altaïr had risen quickly to the challenges presented him by the _caporegime_ and son of the Don, Emilio.

Malik's brother Kadar, young and foolish, had been eager to follow in Altaïr's footsteps, and in so doing had dragged Malik along for the ride, until the three of them were deeply engrossed in the family's pocket, making obscene amounts of money for returning with blood on their hands or whatever property they had been sent to claim.

Malik had resented it at times, but a small part of him enjoyed the thrill of the missions sent them by Emilio Zaccardi.

He enjoyed more the fire it had lit under the already sparky relationship between Altaïr and himself. They were unable to keep their hands off of each other. He remembered Altaïr's brutal grip pinning his wrists down, rips in clothing, blooming bruises from harsh bites. He remembered tracks laid by fingernails, irritated and bleeding, cold air stinging abraded skin.

He remembered soft kisses along his spine as Altaïr spooned behind him, fingertips tracing the curves of muscles, palm splaying over his belly.

As much as it pained him, he remembered kissing Altaïr's fingertips as he left the apartment for a job; he remembered whispering against them, staring into golden eyes.

"_Return safely, my friend_."


	27. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXVII

"Ezio, how come you never mentioned Leonardo here?" asked Mario, taking a long sip of wine and then setting his glass down. "This guy is a _character_." He grinned and put his arm around Leonardo, who looked positively miniature beside him.

"I am not sure how to take that," said Leonardo with a grin.

Mario punched Leonardo's shoulder repeatedly, and Leonardo winced slightly. "I have a feeling you know how to _take it_ just fine!" He laughed. "_I kid_," he added.

Federico choked on his wine at Ezio's side and coughed repeatedly. "_It went up my nose_," he spluttered, holding his napkin against his face, as his father frowned at him.

Ezio's eyes widened and his cheeks flushed. "_Okay_, then! _Zio_ Mario, I think you've-"

"Have you seen Leonardo's painting yet, _Zio_ Mario?" Petruccio asked.

Federico giggled drunkenly into his hand and Leonardo scowled at him.

"No," said Mario. "Why don't you show me?"

Leonardo and Ezio both tried to object, as did Giovanni from the head of the table, but Petruccio took his uncle's hand and led him into the den and flicked the lights on. Across the room from the hundred-inch projector screen hung Leonardo's painting of the Auditore family.

Mario smiled, putting his hand on Petruccio's shoulder. Leonardo had captured him very well given the fact that he had had to leave the country after the first sitting.

Leonardo shuffled into the den. "_Mi dispiace_, _signor_ Auditore. I would have done better, but I only had so many pictures to go by."

"What are you talking about?" asked Mario, pulling Leonardo against his side despite the artist's protests. "_Che meraviglia_!"

"I am glad you are pleased, _signore_."

"We are _family_, Leonardo, please call me _zio_ Mario." He smiled. "Interesting what you've done with Ezio," he said.

Leonardo went red. "How so?"

"Bedroom eyes, _amico mio_. He has them."

"I-" Leonardo flustered quietly as Mario admired the painting.

He recalled that Ezio _had_, in fact, been looking at him in precisely the way he'd been painted; it was not his fault. Through every sitting, Ezio had flirted shamelessly, and it had been quite embarrassing for Leonardo to try to make him presentable for his family.

"You really, er... captured Claudia," said Mario, smacking the artist roughly on the back. Leonardo stumbled.

"You think so?" Mario grinned, and Leonardo looked at her portrait. "Well, I _did_ try to temper her expression with some pictures from her Facebook account... but they were all from _very_ bad angles and she was certain that sitting for a portrait was the most boring thing she had ever done. I had to remind her not to text every time."

"You did a fine job, my boy. I wasn't criticizing you. She looks like herself." Mario turned on his heel and headed back to the dining room, and Leonardo followed him. "Ezio, _nipote_, you have done very well for yourself!" He laughed. "Perhaps you should give some lessons to your sister."

Claudia looked at her uncle and then her brother, petulantly.

Ezio grinned, his four glasses of wine having kicked in, and made a vulgar gesture, lightly curling a fist, his eyes half-lidded, and resting his open mouth against his forefinger. He then put his hand on the table, biting his lower lip naughtily, and Claudia squealed in disgust.


	28. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXVIII

Several hours had passed and still Altaïr slept.

It had been a welcome break from the distraction he often provided. In the intervening time, Malik had finished his paper and was quite pleased with the results. He had found something to microwave in the tiny low-watt oven and had seated himself at the foot of Altaïr's bed.

It was quiet in the small apartment, the only outside sound a constant rumbling of traffic and occasional shuddering bass from the street below. Altaïr was grunting softly in his sleep, as usual; he would wake soon.

Malik rested against the footboard and let his knee brush Altaïr's foot as he twitched fitfully. It bothered him that Altaïr suffered so in his sleep.

As Altaïr fussed softly, Malik sighed and touched his slightly curled toes, shifting closer to pull a foot into his lap. He covered Altaïr's ankle with his hand, resting his heel against the warmth and firmness of his own thigh.

It was only on rare occasions that Altaïr was not calmed by this. He would often twitch abruptly at the gentle touch and then relax. Malik knew him perhaps too well; he had been doing this for a very long time.

The tension in Altaïr's shoulders and hips gave way slightly and he murmured in his sleep, and Malik smiled, his memory wandering to one of the first times he had comforted his friend in this way.


	29. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXIX

Altaïr had come home one night, disoriented and bleeding, clutching a towel around his left hand. He kicked the door until Malik let him in and went straight to the refrigerator and pulled his flask from the top shelf, then stumbled into the bathroom and sat on the lid of the toilet.

"_Altaïr_! What happened!" Malik swallowed, looking him over. His shirt was stained in thick swatches of red, streams of dried blood ran up his arm, the inner thighs of his jeans were red; even his shoes were bloody. Altaïr held the flask between his legs, unscrewed the top, and took a long drink of the cheap whiskey it contained before replying.

"F-fucking cut my finger off," he mumbled, putting the flask down.

Malik caught it before it fell over and screwed the cap back on, then shook his head in confusion. "How did you do this?" He tentatively unwrapped the towel from Altaïr's hand and took a shuddering gasp when he saw the bloody wound. "How the _fuck _did you do this, Altaïr?" he demanded, when he received no reply, and pulled several washcloths from beneath the sink.

"_I_ didn't!" Altaïr snapped, again picking up his flask and uncapping it with his teeth. "I wasn't _done_ with this, Malik!" He allowed Malik to discard the towel. Pain had started to set in; it seemed to double instantly when he looked at his hand, covered in blood and conspicuously less one finger. He swallowed back a bitter taste with a swig of whiskey.

"Do not drink too much of that, Altaïr. It is a blood thinner. You do not want to bleed out." Malik looked up at him with dark eyes, intense and harsh, as he yanked his hand over the sink and held it there as it continued to bleed. "What happened?" He ran water into a towel and wiped Altaïr's hand and wrist down, carefully avoiding the wound.

"Mission went to shit," said Altaïr, taking another drink as Malik held his wrist down on the cold countertop and rifled through the medicine cabinet. He pulled out a brown bottle and held it under his arm to uncap it, then poured a liberal amount of the liquid from it into a hand towel.

"This _will_ hurt," he said, then lifted the collar of Altaïr's shirt to his lips. "Take this. You will want it."

Altaïr took the fabric in his mouth with a small questioning sound. Malik took a breath and pressed the moist towel against his hand and Altaïr bit down on his shirt, a long low animalistic moan escaping clenched teeth, tears stinging his eyes as the hydrogen peroxide stung his wound.

"You will be okay," said Malik.

Heavy footfalls thudded down the hall and the door squealed open. "Malik? Altaïr?"

"Kadar!" Malik turned to his brother and shifted to press the towel and Altaïr's hand against his hip. "Go! Go now to the store. Bring back another two bottles of peroxide and several rolls of gauze. Take my wallet and keys." He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and threw it into Kadar's waiting hands.

"Of course," said Kadar, grabbing the car keys as he left the apartment and shut the door behind him.

Malik pulled a roll of gauze from the cabinet. "Help me open this," he said, and Altaïr pulled the collar of his shirt from his mouth, then grabbed one end of the packaging and pulled until the gauze started to roll out and Malik caught it. "Thank you."

Altaïr grunted, sweating visibly, as he picked up his flask and drained it; a small amount dribbled from the corner of his lips as he leaned back against cold porcelain and stared at the door.

"I suppose you _could_ completely disregard my instructions," said Malik irritably, blotting the liquor from Altaïr's chin with his cuff, then holding out the gauze roll. "Take the end. Hold it against your wrist and _do not_ let go."

"Yes, sir," said Altaïr dizzily, pressing the end of the gauze against his wrist and watching as Malik pulled the towel away and started to carefully wrap his hand. The bleeding had slowed. Malik pressed several gauze pads against the wound and bound them tightly to Altaïr's hand, then tied off the gauze.

"Keep it elevated, Altaïr."

Altaïr groaned softly, feebly holding his arm two inches above the counter.

Malik sighed. "Okay. This is fine." He unfastened his belt and pulled it from the loops, then wrapped it around Altaïr's wrist and tightened it. He tied it over the towel rack and Altaïr laughed. "_What_?"

"That's pretty kinky, Mal," he said, giggling under his breath and leaning his head heavily on his arm.

"I knew it was a bad idea for you to drink, my friend." Malik sighed. "I have to get you out of those clothes. They are covered in blood."

Altaïr groaned softly, looking up at Malik with golden eyes, his pupils dilated. "I'd like that."

Malik grunted, leaving him as he was while he retrieved a pair of heavy-weight scissors. He cut Altaïr's shirt off, revealing bare chest shining with cold sweat, clammy skin raised in goosebumps. "You are in shock, Altaïr."

"No _shit_, Sherlock," said Altaïr, reaching a shaking, bloody right hand out to touch Malik's face, then frowning when it was batted away. "I _like_ these jeans, Mal," he sighed, shifting back in his seat to allow Malik to cut his jeans off.

"Do not be irritating," said Malik, opening the jeans up and letting them sit where they were, wrapping Altaïr in thick bath towels and crouching to untie his shoes. He rested his cheek against Altaïr's knee, wiry stubble scratching his skin, and slid the shoes and socks from Altaïr's feet.

Altaïr sighed, looking at his hand. Blood was soaking through the gauze already. "Mal, look."

Malik frowned deeply. "I thought it might happen this way. A change of plans, then. I will be back shortly." He got up and went to the kitchen, and Altaïr tried to watch him but quickly lost sight.

"Mal?" He struggled a bit. "_Malik_?"

"Shut up, Altaïr. I will be with you in a moment."

Altaïr leaned against the counter, allowing his arm to hang limply from the towel rack. A few drops of blood splashed on the tile countertop through the heavy gauze. He groaned, feeling sick to his stomach, as he shrugged out of the towels.

Malik returned after a moment with a table knife, the handle of which was wrapped in a towel, and two fingers of whiskey in a glass, which he set down on the counter. He picked up Altaïr's shirt and cut one of the sleeves off, then rolled the fabric into a tube and set it in Altaïr's lap.

Carefully, Malik pulled Altaïr's wrist free from the belt and rested it on the edge of the counter, his hand dangling over the sink basin. He cut the gauze off and fresh blood pooled at the wound and dripped freely onto the porcelain of the sink as he disposed of the bandaging.

"Do not move, my friend." He looked into Altaïr's eyes and swallowed. "I am sorry for what I must do, Altaïr."

"_Shut up_," Altaïr hissed, staring at the blood dripping from his hand and shuddering. "Just _do it_, Malik."

Malik nodded, pulling his lighter from his pocket and flicking it on. He held it under the flat blade of the knife. Altaïr picked up the sleeve from his shirt and shoved it into his mouth, and Malik held his hand down to the counter firmly with his forearm and looked him in the eyes for a moment before pressing the hot metal to the wound.

A cry escaped Altaïr's throat, muffled by the gag in his mouth. He closed his eyes tightly, biting down hard.

"I understand," Malik whispered, pulling the hot knife away after two or three seconds that felt like eternity.

Altaïr groaned in relief, then noticed that Malik's hand was approaching his again.

"It will be over soon, my friend." With that, the heated metal touched Altaïr's sensitive, aching skin again and sent a tremor up his arm. He tried to jerk his hand away but Malik was too strong.

Altaïr's teeth clenched tightly around the fabric. The smell of his blood and burning flesh made his stomach turn. When Malik again removed the knife, Altaïr realized with startling clarity that he felt oddly little pain; the nerves were on fire but his mind had lost the signal.

Malik picked up the lighter to heat the knife again, still pinning Altaïr's wrist to the counter with a muscular forearm. After a few moments of blue-yellow light on shiny steel, Malik set the lighter down and pressed the knife to Altaïr's skin once more.

A weak groan rumbled in Altaïr's chest and he grabbed Malik's hip. His fingers slid under Malik's shirt and fingernails dug harshly into his side, gripping the heavy muscle above his pelvis.

The knife pulled away from his hand and Malik threw it into the sink. He shook the oven mitt off of his hand and gently touched the cauterized wound. Altaïr flinched away and Malik growled under his breath, pressing a little harder, then nodding in satisfaction and running water over the knife.

Altaïr pulled the soaked fabric from his mouth and threw it in the garbage bin.

"You did well, my friend," said Malik, picking up the glass of scotch and draining it.

"_Fuck_." Altaïr flopped backward, his arm falling limp and sliding back on the counter to follow his shoulder.

The door opened and Kadar entered the apartment. He shut the door and brought a bag of medical supplies into the bathroom. "Can I help?"

"No. Thank you, Kadar." Malik seated himself on the counter. He took the bag from his brother and set it down at his hip. "You have already helped."

Kadar sighed and pushed Malik's wallet into his hand. He gave his older brother a brief plaintive frown, then turned on his heel and left.

Malik took Altaïr's hand in both of his own, cleaned and dressed it silently, and after a moment of gently holding it in his lap, lifted it and kissed his fingertips gently.

Altaïr bowed his head, closing his eyes. "Thank you," he said after a pause.

"Mm." Malik smiled slightly against the pads of Altaïr's fingers. "Allow me to get you a drink."

Altaïr nodded, and Malik brought him a glass of scotch on the rocks and a Coke, which he drank as Malik cleaned the dried blood from his skin with a soft, damp towel.

Later that night, Malik sat awake at the foot of the bed they shared, gently holding Altaïr's feet in his lap, stroking his ankles to soothe him as he fussed in his sleep.


	30. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXX

Petruccio had gone to bed, and Claudia was in her room, sulking over one thing or another. It was late, but Mario had not wanted to go home, and so they had headed downstairs to watch a movie.

After a bit of debate, Federico had suggested _Slumdog Millionaire_, which had been in theatres when Mario had left for Italy.

Leonardo and Ezio sat in the back of the home theatre, enjoying the darkness of the room and the absence of awkward conversation.

Ezio closed his eyes as Leonardo's hand slid over his leg. He blushed and bit down on his lip to contain a gasp as Leonardo grasped his upper thigh with demanding fingers.

Leonardo leaned on Ezio's shoulder and slid his hand up his chest, and with a surreptitious glance around the room, unbuttoned a button and slid his fingers into Ezio's shirt. He pulled gently at a nipple and Ezio twitched, breathing against Leonardo's blond hair. He cupped the artist's cheek in his hand and ran his thumb over soft lips. He felt his chest shudder as Leonardo mouthed his thumb, licking gently, then ran his teeth along the grooves of his thumbprint; Leonardo pinched his nipple roughly and a tiny sound escaped him.

Ezio didn't notice as Giovanni glanced furtively over his shoulder, away from the movie; his eyes widened upon seeing Leonardo suckling Ezio's thumb, hand inside his shirt. He looked almost comically outraged as he scowled at them, and then his cheeks went red and he turned away to whisper in his wife's ear about "young men engaging in inappropriate acts."

Maria smiled and rolled her eyes, and Giovanni grunted softly and turned back toward his son and the artist who now happened to be paying rather detailed attention to his wrist, leaving tiny marks as he bit the sensitive skin there. Ezio noticed this time and pulled his arm away, his cheeks flushing hot.

After a few moments, Ezio heard a strange rustling sound. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Giovanni hit him across the thigh with a rolled-up _TV Guide Magazine_.

"_Shut up and watch the movie_!" hissed Federico, and Giovanni returned to his position as if nothing had happened.

The two hours of movie seemed to last forever, but finally Ezio and Leonardo had found themselves being hugged by the entirety of the family multiple times apiece. They had been offered Ezio's old bedroom, and the spare room (at Giovanni's insistence), for the night, but Leonardo had insisted that they go home so that he could make it to school in the morning.

They had been forced to take home two bottles of wine, which clanked together in Leonardo's bag, set tenuously upright and separated from his laptop by a folded sweatshirt. The door shut behind them and Leonardo smiled.

"_Oh, the things I will do to you_," he purred in Ezio's ear as he led him toward the car.

Ezio smiled and reached for the handle of the Beetle, then frowned when the door didn't open.

Leonardo smiled and dragged a fingertip down Ezio's back. "I would like you to open the door and put your seat forward." He hit the button on the remote and the door unlocked; Ezio opened it and pulled the seat toward the front of the car. Leonardo chuckled, setting his messenger bag on the driver's seat. "Very good. Now get in the back seat."

Ezio nodded and climbed in, and Leonardo followed him, then closed the door. He pressed Ezio back against the seat and hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt, licking at his chest with a warm, soft tongue, grasping muscle with rough fingers.

"_Leo_..." Ezio closed his eyes, pressing his chest upward into Leonardo's grasp, running his fingers through silky blond hair.

Leonardo bit down on the denim of Ezio's jeans, looking up at him with bright blue eyes.

"Shouldn't we get home?" Ezio murmured, a soft laugh coloring his voice as Leonardo unzipped his jeans.

"_Amore mio_, I cannot wait that long." The dome light clicked off and Ezio bit his lip and closed his eyes.

Leonardo pulled Ezio's jeans down around his thighs and his briefs quickly followed. He kissed the smooth point of Ezio's hipbone, sliding his hand over hot flesh that became firmer under his touch, and firmer still as he pressed his lips against it.

Ezio's fingers twisted gently in Leonardo's hair; his hips jerked slightly and Leonardo quickly pressed them down against the seat of the car, teasing him with long, hot licks from base to tip, along a gently-shuddering vein, followed by the gentle scrape of neatly-trimmed beard.

"Leo... _ah_...!" Ezio whimpered, grabbing onto the back of the passenger's seat with his fingernails as Leonardo eagerly took him in his mouth.

Leonardo groaned and Ezio shuddered beneath him. He stroked Ezio's hip, panting through his nose, and Ezio grasped his hair and pulled him down, arching up, then whined when Leonardo pushed him back and sat up, one eyebrow cocked, frowning slightly.

"_Ezio_, _caro mio_, why do you do this to me?" Leonardo admonished in a low growl, taking Ezio's erection in his hand and stroking smoothly, slowly. "You know I do not like to be pushed around."

"_F-fuck_... Leo, please..." Ezio jerked upward into Leonardo's hand, the words stumbling from his mouth, sounding foreign and desperate.

Leonardo clicked his tongue softly. "You are _so_ beautiful, Ezio... you have such a pretty mouth that does such _filthy_ things." He smiled, pressing two fingers to Ezio's lips.

Ezio nodded, taking Leonardo's fingers into his mouth, licking them wetly, closing his eyes and squirming under Leonardo's gentle teasing touch.

"You know that your uncle incorrectly evaluated me, my love." Leonardo pulled his fingers from Ezio's mouth and slid them along his inner thigh, to the apex of his legs, pressing his arousal against his belly with his other hand.

A harsh pant was Ezio's only reply as he arched his back and grabbed at Leonardo's shoulder.

"He later apologized, but maybe I do not have my way with you often enough. Perhaps it is not obvious enough that _you_ are the one owned by _me_... _Cosa ne pensi, bello mio_?" Leonardo murmured, his voice sweet but firm, past a smile, wicked but nonetheless filled with affection.

Ezio nodded in tacit consent, then yelped quietly as saliva-slick fingers entered him, two at once, insistent and unyielding. He muffled a few choice oaths against his shoulder and grabbed the hook above the door with both hands, spreading his legs as far as he could, restricted by the jeans at his thighs.

Leonardo groaned, untying Ezio's shoes with an awkward right hand as the fingers of his left curled teasingly. Ezio's hips jerked slightly and Leonardo straightened his fingers and slid them slowly out and then in, eliciting a needy whimper. He slipped Ezio's shoes off. "Take off your jeans, _diavolino_," he said softly.

"_Unh_..." Ezio curled his legs and gasped when fingertips moved inside him, pressing gently against his prostate. He bit down on his lower lip and slid his jeans over his knees. Another shift in position shot sparks of pleasure up his spine and he moaned aloud, curling his own fingers in denim and arching his back as Leonardo helped him slide his feet out of tight jeans. His briefs still stretched between his knees.

Leonardo looked him over and curled his fingers deeper; Ezio twitched and whimpered desperately, shoving his briefs down to his ankles, as Leonardo patiently unfastened his own slacks and pushed them and striped boxer-briefs down around his knees.

After a moment's fumbling in the side pocket of the messenger bag in the front seat, Leonardo nodded, pleased, and uncapped a small plastic tube.

Ezio closed his eyes and whimpered as Leonardo's fingers slid out. His briefs were pulled off of one foot, left to dangle from the other ankle. He heard a few wet sounds and groaned, his body tense but prepared. After a moment, a gentle hand settled on his hip and, soon after, Leonardo was inside him, rough and demanding. He let out a choked cry and Leonardo leaned over him, muffling his voice with a hot, heavy kiss.

"_Come ti senti_?" Leonardo murmured, sliding his hand along Ezio's thigh, hitching it slowly higher under his arm.

"_Bene_," Ezio grunted, lifting his other leg and gasping when Leonardo pulled his thighs over his shoulders and leaned into him. "Oh...!"

Leonardo smiled breathlessly. He tossed his hair from his eyes and leaned down to claim Ezio's full lips roughly with his own, then bit at the base of his neck.

Ezio grasped at Leonardo's shoulders, arching up weakly below him, folded in half and relishing every violent thrust. "_Ah, sì_! _Sì_, Leonardo!" He tilted his head to the side, his teeth clenched in mild pain and overwhelming pleasure as every stroke hit home.

"_Oh_... Ezio..." Leonardo buried his face against Ezio's shoulder, his hair brushing naked thigh. "_Ti piace così, non è vero_?" he murmured, forcefully leaning into him.

"_Ah_!" Ezio closed his eyes and dug his fingernails into Leonardo's back. "_Sì_... _mi dai_... ah... _per favore, mi dai_!" His words were choked and shaky, his voice strained, as his back rubbed against the seat through his shirt.

Leonardo panted over Ezio's neck, angling deeper and faster. He knew Ezio's body so well, knew the meaning of every twitch; he knew that he was getting close already. A soft groan rumbled in Leonardo's chest and he bit down on the soft flesh of Ezio's thigh, eliciting a tiny pleasurable cry.

_"_Mh... _sì, _Leonardo..." Ezio's hips shuddered violently and he clawed at Leonardo's shoulderblades, bucking upward, his breath harsh and fast as a dam broke in him; hot moisture splattered his chest and he cried out, tangling the fingers of a shaking hand in blond hair as he twitched under Leonardo's demanding frame.

Leonardo whimpered, white light flashing across his field of vision, the movement of his hips erratic and jerking; only a moment later he was buried deep inside Ezio, shuddering with pleasure, filling him with wet heat and curling fingernails into his sides. "Ah! _Oh, Ezio_...!"

Ezio groaned deeply, cupping the back of Leonardo's head and kissing soft hair, pulling him down to hold him as he trembled.

After a moment, Leonardo sat up and slipped out, his cheeks flushed. "_Oh, hell_," he said. "I will have to use the steam cleaner on this seat tomorrow..."

"_Er_..." Ezio blushed and grabbed a tissue from the box in the back of the car and wiped his chest, laughing slightly in a broken voice.

Leonardo giggled. "_Mi dispiace_, Ezio," he said. "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"

"A little," Ezio said frankly, shifting to pull his briefs back on. He squirmed in discomfort and then chuckled. "I'm still sore from Friday."

"_Still_?" Leonardo smiled, pulling his boxer-briefs over his hips and following them with his slacks. "Clearly I do not provide you with enough of a workout."


	31. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXXI

Altaïr sat behind the desk of the body shop, sketching switchblade knives on his brown paper lunch bag. He rested his chin on his elbow and watched the tip of the pen move, until his phone buzzed on the desk and a quiet guitar strum signaled the receipt of a text message. He picked it up and flipped the phone open.

"Hey, it's Ezio. You coming tonight?"

Altaïr grunted. "Yeah," he wrote back and put the phone in his pocket. His six-hour shift had only begun an hour beforehand and now he was certain that it would go slowly. In any case, it was Monday, and Mondays were notorious for difficult customers and hungover coworkers.

He went back to his sketches. He'd drawn something that pulled his interest further: a stiletto blade set into a shaft. It was an out-the-front switchknife much like his own, but thinner, in a more streamlined design.

He chewed his lip thoughtfully and sketched it again, this time attached to a pair of thin straps, buckled to the underside of an arm. His arm. The remaining fingers of his left hand split on either side of the thin blade, which fit between middle and pinky finger.

He scratched his chin and drew the casing again, pondering the mechanics involved. The ejection would be easy; the retraction perhaps less so.

"What are you up to?" asked Ryan, wiping his hands on an orange rag and peeking over Altaïr's hunched shoulder. "_Ooh_, that's cool. Is that from a video game or something?"

"_No_," said Altaïr. "It's just something I do in my spare time." He ripped the designs he wanted to save free from the rest of the bag and put the scrap of paper in his wallet and threw the empty bag away.

"Oh. Well, it's cool." Ryan pulled the previous day's page off of the desk calendar. "Hey man, did I tell you about the party you missed on Friday?"

Altaïr frowned. "No. I mean, you told me about it existing."

"_Oh_, man, I spent all day Saturday puking. All morning and afternoon, anyway. I drank _twelve shots_ of tequila."

"That sounds like a _great_ party, Ryan." Altaïr rested his chin in his hands.

"Man, it was... _epic_. Dude, someone started a grease fire on the kitchen floor. I was trying to get through the kitchen to the bathroom but they were in my way trying to get it put out." Ryan laughed. "Someone called the fire department but _man_... I couldn't keep it in anymore and I puked on the fire. It went out, dude! The fucking fire department showed up and one of them high-fived me. It was _awesome_. The tile melted though."

Altaïr frowned. "That's... _lovely_," he said.

Ryan grinned and sat on the edge of the counter. "It was great."

Altaïr gave him half a smile and silently thanked some deity or other as the bell on the door jingled and a young mother walked in with her small son.


	32. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXXII

"You're free, Al," said Jason, nudging Altaïr's shoulder as he sat in a stupor at the computer.

"Mm?" Altaïr rubbed his face. The cashier's screen in front of him seemed to have blurred into one big grey-black splotch.

Jason laughed. "Exactly. We're slow today. I'm taking over on register; you can go home."

Altaïr looked at his watch. It was only four o'clock and his ride was still in school. He frowned, wondering why he hadn't driven himself. "Oh," he said after a moment. "Alright, then." He turned the chair around and clocked out, then shuffled out of the office.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and sent a text message to Malik, telling him he wouldn't need a ride, then started down the street. He hated the streets even in daylight; it wasn't long before he turned and headed down the alley, jumped onto a dumpster and then leapt to catch the roof of a sports store. He looked up the adjoining office building and then at the tall bank beside it, then nodded. He took a running leap and caught himself on a window ledge, then clambered up the side of the office building, avoiding the windows when possible. He heard a few stray voices from a few yards away as he shimmied along the corner of the building to climb up the outside of the fire escape.

"_Mommy_, what's that man doing!" asked a small child in a squealing voice.

"Is he crazy?" a man asked.

"Hey man, look! It's fuckin' Spiderman!"

Altaïr almost lost his balance, having to contain a laugh at the last one. He pulled himself onto the rooftop and went out on a small ledge, where he crouched. He pulled a Red Bull from his pocket and opened it, then put his earphones in his ears. He pressed play on his mp3 player and was greeted by Red Hot Chili Peppers.

A short way away was an old firehouse turned into a used book store. The store's management had passed down through several hands in a location two or three miles south, then moved to the firehouse when the aged owner had given it up after thirty years. Beside it was a defunct import market, a curiosities store, and a store that sold a variety of loosely-connected geological and scientific items.

He looked below him. He'd climbed several stories; below him was a dumpster full of cardboard. He thought briefly about jumping into it, then brushed the idea off as suicidal and ridiculous.

He took the time on the ledge to drink his Red Bull as an eagle flew overhead in a slow circle. After he'd finished his energy drink, he carefully turned, like a cat on a windowsill, and returned to the square surface of the rooftop. He looked at the gap between the office building and bank- perhaps an eight-foot gap with a three-foot drop- and got a running start. He leapt, overestimating the power he would need, and had to roll on the roof of the bank, then catch himself against a short wall on the other edge.

For a moment he clung to the concrete wall, panting, then covered his heart with a hand and was relieved that it had not stopped beating.

There was an open dumpster below him and he smiled vaguely, then dropped the can toward it, and was quite satisfied when it landed squarely inside.

He looked below him. There were plenty of handholds on the side of the building. He swung his legs over the edge and looked down under his arm, then started downward.

He'd climbed this bank before, he remembered. He looked up the wall again, blushing at the memory. Malik had led him downtown in a rare youthful spree; he had pushed him against a graffiti-painted wall and kissed him deeply. He had grasped Altaïr's hips in his hands to grind against him and then grinned and turned away to scrabble up the bank building. Altaïr had pursued him but he'd been unable to keep up; by the time he reached the roof, Malik had already removed his heavy boots, shirt, and belt.

Altaïr's palms sweated, his fingers slipping; he lost his footing and gasped, the world seeming to spin as he fell. He twisted his body around, using the weight of his shoulders and steel-toed boots to flip over; he landed heavily on his hands and knees and yelped in pain.

His cheeks flushed hot red and he groaned, standing and hobbling a few steps before sitting down on a small landing outside a restaurant. Adrenaline would not be enough to carry him home this time.

He fumbled in his pocket with scraped hands and pulled out his cell phone. He pulled the earbuds from his ears.

He started to call Malik but an odd ache settled into his chest and he ended the call before it went through. His hands burned with the loose dirt and tiny pellets of gravel embedded in them. After a moment, he opened his most recent text message and pressed the Call button.

"_Pronto_," said the voice on the other end, "_chi parla_?"

"Er..." Altaïr frowned. "It's Altaïr... is this Ezio?"

Ezio giggled. "Yeah. I just wanted to see what you'd do. You need something?"

"Um. Yeah... are you off work yet?" Altaïr asked. "I... could use a ride home, if you wouldn't mind."

"Are you okay?" asked Ezio. "You sound... shaken up or something."

Altaïr sighed. "I fell. I was climbing and I fell. I'm, um... I'm at the bank across from Old Firehouse Books... at Walnut?" Ezio laughed for a moment, and Altaïr grunted. "What's so funny?"

"I'm just about to get off work. Like, give me two minutes. I'm over your head right now."

"What?"

"I'm at work, Altaïr. You'll see." Ezio hung up, and Altaïr groaned, going to sit on the stairs of the bank.

He hadn't been there long, perhaps for the length of a song, when the door opened above him and a hand grabbed his shoulder.

He jumped, instinctively reaching for his pocket knife, then looked over his shoulder to see Ezio.

"What the _fuck_, Ezio?"

"I work here. This is my dad's bank." He helped Altaïr up from the steps and crossed the street to his bright white Dodge Charger. He popped the locks and got in the driver's seat. "Are you bleeding?"

Altaïr frowned momentarily and looked down. The knees of his khaki pants were ripped to shreds and faintly tinged red. He nodded.

Ezio put a towel down on the seat and grinned. "Get in."

Altaïr climbed into the passenger's seat, wincing. "Hey, thanks, by the way."

"_Di nulla_. Do you need me to take you to a doctor?"

"Nah. I'll be okay."

Ezio turned on the car. "_Good_! You don't have to be home too quickly, right?"

Altaïr shook his head and Ezio looked delighted as he pulled out of his spot and started down the street, then took a right turn onto the state highway.

He stopped at the train tracks for one of slow-moving westbound trains and drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, then put a CD in. "Leo made this for me," he said.

Altaïr cringed as a few synthesizer notes played over the speakers.

When the train had departed, Ezio stepped on the gas. The Charger picked up speed quickly as they passed a gas station and a drive-through coffee shop, heading north.

"This is... _cute_," said Altaïr.

"You don't like Erasure?" Ezio asked, signaling and passing an old man in a hat going seven or eight under the speed limit.

Altaïr grinned. "It's alright," he started to say, but Ezio pressed a button on the side of the steering column and the song changed to something sappy and Italian.

Ezio's cheeks had gone a bit pink. He looked over his shoulder and slid into the right hand lane as they passed a long row of shops with Spanish signage and a liquor store just outside the city limits. "Sorry. I didn't realize what was going to be on this. You can put on what you want." He looked past Altaïr at a beehive the size of an igloo with a thick wooden door in the shape of a shield.

"What the hell are bug songs?" asked Altaïr, indicating the marquee outside the shop beside the hive.

"I don't know," Ezio replied. "I've been meaning to find out."

He took a right turn past a model of Stonehenge in a rock garden, then smiled and sped through a yellow light and took a sharp curve a bit faster than seemed safe.

"Where are we headed?" Altaïr asked, taking off his jacket and pressing the skip button. He was pleased to hear the distinctive voice of Freddie Mercury over the speakers.

Ezio shrugged. "Generally, north."


	33. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXXIII

"I could open this thing up for you," Altaïr offered as Ezio merged onto the interstate. "Get some kick under the hood. It's a nice car but-"

"You don't think it's got kick?" Ezio smiled wickedly. "Alright. There's a sign up there... twenty miles to the border. Bet we make it there in... fourteen minutes," he said, looking at the clock on the dashboard.

"That's, like... eighty-five," said Altaïr. "Granddad's Volvo can do eighty-five on a good day."

Ezio raised his eyebrows. "Okay. Let's see what this _thing_ can do, then." His smile broadened as he looked around and depressed the gas pedal, then reached over to turn up the volume.

The Dodge picked up speed as they passed an exit, the engine growling with pleasure as Franz Ferdinand's _Do You Want To_ shook the speakers.

Altaïr felt his legs quiver slightly on the seat. The ripped threads of his khakis pulled at his scabbing wounds and his cheeks heated at the mild pleasurable tingle it caused. He grunted softly and pulled the threads free from coagulated blood, then bit down on his lip. The familiar smell, metallic and salty, drifted to his nostrils and he coughed quietly, looking out the window.

Then he looked at the speedometer and his eyes widened. The needle was edging into triple digits. "_Shit_, Ezio. The _cops_, man!" He fidgeted in his pocket, trying to think of a convenient, safe place to stash his knife when they were inevitably stopped.

"_Chill out_," said Ezio, tapping a black box resting on the dash. "It's a scrambler. They can't see me." With another grin he gave the car a bit more gas. "Not terribly legal... but useful."

Altaïr laughed, his stomach seeming to do flips. He watched Ezio, relishing his cool confidence, his bravado.

They made the border in eleven minutes and turned back, Ezio grinning as they took a lobe of the cloverleaf back onto the southbound highway.

As they hit ninety again, Lady Gaga's _Bad Romance_ started to play.

The volume was high and the synthesizer stung Altaïr's ears. He sighed out a held breath as the bass picked up and dropped out again, only to return in force. Ezio nudged the bass mixer slider to the top and turned the volume up another couple of notches.

Altaïr shifted in his seat. His knees were no longer bleeding but he could feel the gentle pull of the scabs. He let his eyes linger on Ezio's face, the full lips moving to the music as he sang along, drowned out.

Golden eyes grazed over the scar on Ezio's lips and briefly, Altaïr had the thought of touching it. He shoved his hands between his knees.

"Hey. Check out what this does," said Ezio, pulling the red elastic from his ponytail and pressing a button on his door. The sunroof slid open and the wind poured in, rustling a few stray papers in the backseat and ruffling through long dark hair.

Altaïr's cheeks warmed again. His gaze shifted to Ezio's thighs, thick and muscular and clad in fashionable tight-fitting charcoal slacks with red pinstripes. The sleeves of his white shirt were pushed up over his elbows; his tight black vest conformed to the curves of his muscles.

Ezio bit down on his lower lip and slid into the next lane, then grinned at Altaïr and increased his speed. "You okay?" he asked in a low murmur.

Altaïr barely caught that he had said anything. The heavy bass thumped in his chest, shaking his heart and lungs such that he did not feel confident to speak. "_Uhh_," he replied softly with a nod. Ezio's cologne, something expensive that smelled of cardamom and nutmeg, made him dizzy.

They were both sweating and Altaïr's breath was coming with less and less ease, as though he had to think in order to make his lungs work. They were once again going over a hundred and it had been a very long time since Altaïr had been in a car that was moving so fast.

Ezio's glance flickered to Altaïr's ripped khakis and up to the slight bulge at his lap. He blushed and mouthed his lower lip.

Altaïr's eyes met Ezio's for only a moment; both grinned as Ezio returned his attention to the road. A silence fell over them and Altaïr watched out the window.

"I need directions," said Ezio, when they had returned to town and he had lowered his speed to obey the posted limit.

Altaïr directed him to the apartment complex quietly, watching him drive. He felt oddly heavy, his abdomen writhing slightly.

"You can drop me off in the fire lane," said Altaïr, but Ezio pulled into a parking spot instead. He closed the sun roof and grinned, putting the sun shade in the window. Quieter now, in the background, a mash-up of The Beatles' _Come Together_ and Nine Inch Nails' _Closer_ played, the soft sparseness of the music hanging heavy, bass and drums shuddering in tandem in the speakers, harsh voices cutting through.

Ezio's spicy cologne filled the car, inescapable but far from unpleasant. Altaïr's chest shuddered and his breath quickened, his lips slightly parted.

Darkened eyes fixed on Altaïr's mouth. Ezio's lips curved in a naughty smile and he reached over to quickly grab Altaïr's short hair. He kissed him roughly, and Altaïr groaned into his mouth and kissed back, closing his eyes, threading his fingers through dark strands at the back of Ezio's head.

Altaïr shifted closer, biting at Ezio's full lips. He tilted his head and allowed Ezio's tongue to enter his mouth, then curled his fingers tightly in the younger man's hair and enjoyed his soft tremulous moan.

Ezio pulled away and bit down at the base of Altaïr's neck, and Altaïr tilted his head and let out a soft grunt of pleasure, then twisted his hand in Ezio's hair.

"_Mh_..." Ezio whimpered, then giggled softly against Altaïr's neck, sliding a hand down his chest and brushing an erect nipple.

Altaïr groaned, then flushed and squirmed away. "I, uh... I've got to go, Ezio," he said, his khakis painfully tight. "Mal will be home, I... yeah."

Ezio nodded after a moment, feeling suddenly guilty as he thought first of Malik and then of Leonardo. "I'll see you tonight, then..." His cheeks reddened and he unlocked the doors and watched Altaïr grab his jacket and get out.

He pulled the sun shade from the window and turned off the music, and watched Altaïr hobble up the steps to the apartment and then disappear inside with a last glance toward the car.


	34. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXXIV

"Thank you for waiting here with me," said Leonardo, taking a seat at a lab computer and logging on.

"It is a pleasure, my friend," Malik replied.

Leonardo smiled and inserted his flash drive in the USB port, awkwardly guiding the mouse with his right hand.

The door of the computer lab opened and a young man in a grey hoodie and worn blue-grey jeans entered. He approached the desk.

"Er... excuse me," he said, and the man behind the desk looked up at him.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Are you..." The man in the hoodie looked at something written on his hand. "Shaun Hastings?"

The Englishman folded his book and set it on the table. "And you would be... _ah_, yes. _Lost Cause_, is that you?"

"Okay. I thought I had the right person. My professor said you could help me get into my student account. I'm a student at-"

"The daycare is at 501 West Lake Street, you are in the wrong building."

"_Shaun_!" A girl at the other side of the lab frowned at him, pushing her glowing blue headphones back to rest at the back of her neck.

"_Well_..." Shaun shuffled a few papers around on his desk. "Let me see your student ID, then."

The other young man handed it over.

"Right. Well, _Desmond_, you can log in on the computers in the library, but as you are not a student at the university..." Shaun pushed Desmond's ID across the desk to him.

Desmond sighed. "Alright, then. Thanks."

"Mm. _Lovely_ to meet you," said Shaun.

"Desmond!"

Desmond turned around, and Leonardo beckoned him over. "You can use this computer," he said. "I would have said something earlier, but you look so _different_ in your clothes. _Er_, that is... your casual clothes."

"Er..." Desmond laughed and approached Leonardo. "How are you?" He shook Malik's hand and pulled out a chair to sit beside him.

"Oh, _fine_," said Leonardo, clearly flustered by the awkwardness of the mouse. He was once again rechecking his paper for errors.

Desmond smiled and looked over Leonardo's shoulder. "Hey, you know what would make it better?"

"Hm?" Leonardo distractedly ran the pad of his thumb over his lower lip, then looked at Desmond. "What would improve this?"

"A sex scene."

Malik and Leonardo frowned in tandem.

"I do not think this would help," said Leonardo, once again returning his attention to the document in front of him.

"_Please_, Leonardo... for pity's sake." Malik scratched his chin. "I would like to go home at some point in the future. Your paper is perfectly serviceable."

"_Ugh_! Why would you say this?" Leonardo fussed.

Desmond shrugged. "I got a B on worse than that," he said.

"_Ugh_!" Leonardo rested his face in his hands. "Desmond, you are not helping," he said, his voice muffled. "I think... I start over on this _pezzo di merda_."

Malik rolled his eyes. "Print your paper, Leonardo. You always charm your way into an A. I do not know why you complain so." He sipped from a travel cup of chai, and Desmond could have sworn that he heard Shaun hiss.

Leonardo sighed, his cheeks turning a bit pink. "What are you insinuating, Malik?" He looked up at the ceiling and groaned. "I suppose it will never be perfect and I hate to keep you here." He started the print job and took his hat off to run his fingers through his hair. "_Oh_! Desmond, will you join us tonight?" he asked with a sudden smile, perking up.

"Where are you going?" asked Desmond as he shifted into the chair in front of the computer and logged on to his student account.

"Out for drinks," said Leonardo, crossing the room to stand by the printer and receive his paper.

"I'd love to," said Desmond distractedly, frowning at the computer screen. "_Ugh_, why do you have to be such a piece of crap... oh, Leo, don't forget your flash drive."

"Oh, _sì_." Leonardo picked up the print and stapled the pages at the corner. "We will be going to the Armadillo on Walnut." He sat beside Desmond. "Do you need help with something?"

Desmond shook his head. "I'll figure it out. I'll try to drop by tonight but I have two finals tomorrow." He rubbed his forehead and clicked on a link again; it opened nothing but an empty white screen and he swore under his breath.

"You have to press Control when you click," said Malik, with the wryest of smiles.

Desmond tried this, and grunted in satisfaction when it worked. "That's inconvenient."

Malik chuckled dryly. "You do not need to tell me this," he said.

"That's how I met him," said Leonardo, taking the mouse from Desmond to eject his flash drive, then pulling it free from the USB port.

Malik frowned. "Must you tell him this? There is little _story_ to this story, Leonardo."

"Oh, alright." Leonardo smiled and put the cap on his flash drive, then stuck it in his messenger bag. "Desmond, _amico mio_, I will see you tonight, yes?" he asked, watching Desmond with bright blue eyes. "_Please_?"

Desmond sighed and looked at Leonardo, then went a bit pink and looked away. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be there for a bit, anyway."

"_Thank you_." Leonardo smiled and rubbed Desmond's shoulder, then picked up his bag and opened the door for Malik and himself. "We will make it worth your time. It will be fun."

"That sounds like a threat," Desmond chuckled, smiling up at the artist.

"See you tonight!" said Leonardo cheerfully.


	35. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXXV

Altaïr parked his Camaro beside Ezio's Charger and looked briefly toward the passenger's seat. Malik stared out the window toward the stucco wall and heavy wooden doors with chili pepper handles.

"You hungry?" asked Altaïr, awkwardly fiddling with the gear shift and parking brake.

Malik's stomach growled and his cheeks reddened slightly. "Yes. Thank you for driving tonight, my friend." He opened the car door and got out, and Altaïr followed suit, watching him nervously. There was a short pause, and Malik sighed. "_What_?"

"Mm." Altaïr shook his head. "It's nothing." He smiled slightly, his eyes shaded under the hood of his sweatshirt. He tucked his hands in his pockets and followed Malik into the restaurant.

"Hi," said the chipper hostess. "Table for two?"

"We're meeting a couple of people," Altaïr said. "They're here already." He peeked around the corner into the bar and Ezio waved at him delightedly. Altaïr cringed. "Right there. As _luck_ would have it."

Malik brushed past him and smiled slightly over his shoulder. Altaïr's cheeks went a bit red and he followed, sliding into the booth beside him.

Leonardo smiled at them across the table. His soft blond hair was falling in his face as he read the drink menu.

"Sorry we're in the bar," said Ezio. "There weren't any booths in the restaurant."

"It's fine," said Altaïr, deliberately avoiding Ezio's eyes and noticing, after a moment, that Ezio was avoiding his as well. He shuffled his foot under the table, looking down at the colorful front cover of the menu.

A young blond man approached the table with a bright white smile. "Hi there," he said. "My name is Justin, I'll be your server tonight... can I get you guys started with anything to drink?"

"A glass of water will do, thank you," said Malik.

"I'll take, um..." Altaïr fumbled with the menu, then offered up his ID. "A Monster, I guess. And a double of Smirnoff."

"Okay," said the waiter, leaning down to examine Altaïr's license, "and for you guys?" He adjusted his glasses and smiled at Leonardo and Ezio.

Ezio leaned forward to pull his wallet from his pocket. "I'll have a Corona," he said, handing his ID to the waiter, who handed it back after examining it.

"I would like a margarita, please," said Leonardo, brushing his hair back from his face and smiling at the waiter.

"Okay. Can I see your ID?" the waiter asked.

Leonardo giggled. "Oh! How flattering." He took his driver's license from his wallet and handed it over, then took it back with a satisfied smile.

The waiter smiled. "I'll have those out for you in a moment." He turned on his heel and walked away, and Altaïr traced the grain of the wooden tabletop with a finger, then looked up at Malik, who was watching him with interest.

"So, Altaïr," Leonardo began, and Altaïr looked up at him. "Ezio tells me that you went for a drive today... do you like his car?"

Altaïr's cheeks reddened slightly. "It's nice," he said noncommittally. "Think I could give it a bit more under the hood, but Ezio seems reluctant."

"As he should be," said Malik with a small smirk. "It was bad enough when you started to tinker with _my_ things."

Altaïr grumbled softly, looking at his fingernails. He'd cleaned under them thoroughly after work, and they looked strange to him, almost manicured. "You know I did it because I thought it would help you, Mal."

Malik sighed. "You never look at me when I speak, Altaïr."

Pushing his hood back, Altaïr looked up at Malik. He saw the tiniest gentle smile, lingering in dark endless eyes before flickering and fading as Malik looked away.

"In any case," said Malik, "I _do_ appreciate it, but I wish you had acquired my permission first."

"Well, _next time_," Altaïr said, looking through his menu. "What are you having, Leo? What's good?"

Leonardo smiled. "Nothing you'd like, _amico mio_. Remember, if you would, that I am vegetarian. I also do not eat cheese."

"_Hell_," said Altaïr. "That would be why the um... no pizza thing, then."

Rolling his eyes, Leonardo pushed his hair back from his face. "_Yes_."

A group of five young men in fatigues came in and sat down at a nearby table. One of them grinned and waved toward the booth, and Ezio waved back.

Altaïr looked at Ezio and then at the group of military men. "You know them?"

"No," said Ezio cheerily.

Leonardo's cell phone rang in his pocket, singing in Paul McCartney's voice: "_Desmond has a barrow in the market place, Molly is the singer in a band_!"

He pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear. "_Desmond_, how are you?" There was a pause as he pushed his hair back from his face. "Yes, we are here... look in the bar." He smiled. "I see you." He then took his phone from his ear and ended the call.

Desmond smiled and took a free chair, then seated himself at the end of the table.

"I am glad you could make it, my friend!" said Leonardo, wrapping an arm around him.

The waiter returned with a tray and a frown that diplomatically changed with a smile. "One more, then? What can I get you to drink?" he asked as he set the drinks out on the table.

Desmond fumbled for his wallet in the pocket of his black slacks. "I'll have a Diablo Margarita, thanks." He smiled and handed his ID up and the waiter took it, checked it, and nodded. He spun the tray around and held it under his arm, then wandered back off to the bar.

A middle-aged man opened a closet at the back of the restaurant and pulled out a speaker on a dolly, which he set by a small stage.

"Er... are they doing something tonight?" Altaïr took a sip of his Monster, then downed half of his vodka.

Leonardo smiled a little. "_Oh_... not sure." He took a drink of his margarita.

The waiter returned with Desmond's margarita and took their orders as another man helped set up the stage with another speaker and a television on a table. The two men set up a table beside the stage with a mixer board and computer.

Altaïr grunted. "They're doing fucking-"

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! My name is DJ Kevin and we'll be starting Eagle Eye Karaoke here at the Armadillo in about fifteen minutes." The DJ hung the microphone up and adjusted his workspace, turned on _Hotel California_, then set out five or six binders on the speakers.

"_Oh fuck no_," said Altaïr.


	36. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXXVI

Leonardo looked up innocently. "I had no idea, _mi dispiace_," he said, in a tone that said he had _every_ idea. "But of course we have already ordered." He became very interested in his margarita at this point.

Malik sighed. "Leonardo, you did not tell us about this... I do not want to stay for this _debacle_." He picked up his water glass and drank from the straw, scowling slightly at Leonardo, who merely smiled back.

"_Mi dispiace_," Leonardo said again. "I am sorry. Please, stay with us. It will be fun." He flicked a strand of hair from his eyes, looking intently at Malik. "_Per favore, amico mio_," he murmured, blue eyes pleading.

"_Leonardo_..." Malik sighed, resting his arm on the table. "As you wish," he said, looking away from Leonardo's bright eyes.

Leonardo smiled. "Thank you. I will be right back." He got up and went into the restaurant.

Altaïr sighed. "Well, won't _this_ be fun," he grumbled.

"Relax," said Ezio. "It will be." His dark hair, pulled back in a messy ponytail with a red ribbon, framed his face. He tilted his head slightly downward to squeeze a slice of lime into his beer and his eyes were cast into soft shadow.

Desmond sipped his margarita slowly. "I come here a lot," he offered. "It's a nice place. Everyone's really enthusiastic. Ezio's right, it'll be fun." He smiled, leaning back in his seat and unzipping his khaki canvas jacket. It fell open at his sides; beneath it he wore a tight-fitting black T-shirt and black slacks that flattered his slim form.

Ezio brushed his hair back behind his ear. "Yeah," he said shortly, looking Desmond over with the tiniest of frowns. He was very attractive and there was a certain appeal to his gentleness. He was built similarly to Ezio, less muscular but athletic, fit, and toned. The upward lift at the corners of his lips filled Ezio with an odd sort of annoyance.

Malik grunted softly. "Leonardo will guarantee that we enjoy ourselves, I think," he said, nodding toward the bar.

Leonardo stood at the bar, his arms rested on a thick black binder, speaking to the young female bartender. He brushed his hair back from his eyes and nodded, thanked the bartender, then hauled the heavy notebook to the table and sat beside Ezio. "The DJ says he got the new CD in," he said.

"Oh?" Ezio flipped the notebook open to a red page of newly added songs.

"Will you do it with me?" Leonardo opened the zippered pencil pouch and pulled a few request sheets out, then pointed to a line of text.

Ezio went red and shifted in his seat. "Oh... _Leo_, I don't know..."

"_Please_," said Leonardo, covering Ezio's hand with his own.

"_Mh_. Alright," Ezio replied resignedly, picking up his beer bottle and taking a long swig as Leonardo wrote out a request. "Are either of you singing? Desmond?"

Altaïr almost choked on his Monster. "No," he said firmly.

The waiter brought over their food, and Desmond moved out of his way. "Yeah," he said, ducking under a spindly arm holding out a bean sopapilla on a heavy orange plate. "Always do."

"Can I get anything else for you guys?" asked the waiter. His blond hair was falling in his eyes and he blew it away irritably.

"No, thank you," said Leonardo. "We have something on the way- oh, behind you."

The waiter looked over his shoulder and stepped aside to allow a second waiter to set two very full pitchers of margaritas on the table.

"Thank you," said Ezio as Leonardo shifted the plates on the table. The second waiter went to the bar and retrieved a tray full of glasses and set them out.

Malik looked at the glass that sat in front of him, rimmed with salt. He then looked at Leonardo with a tiny apologetic smile. "My friend, I do not know..."

"You'll want it," Ezio said. "Trust me. You'll have fun if you have some tequila in you. It's miserable otherwise."

"Altaïr is drinking, and we have his car here," Malik said. "I do not think it wise-"

"I'll drive," Desmond interrupted. "I walked here. My finals aren't till tomorrow afternoon." He smiled. "Problem solved."

Altaïr smiled at Malik. "It'll be okay. I promise."

Malik shifted in his seat. "I am not sure."

"Nathan! Nathan, you're starting us off tonight... welcome to Eagle Eye Karaoke... this is Nathan with _Bridge Over Troubled Water_!"

A young man with dark auburn hair stepped up onto the stage, looking decidedly self-conscious. He picked up the microphone as the gentle piano intro began. Desmond turned in his seat expectantly and rested his chin on the chair back. The young man took a drink of his beer and cleared his throat.

"_When you're weary_..._ feeling small_... _when tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all_," Nathan sang, murmuring into the microphone, barely audibly. "_I'm on your side, oh, when times get rough_... _and friends just can't be found, like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down_." His voice broke slightly as he forced a falsetto, a bit too high for the melody line and quavering.

"Okay," said Malik. "Now I am sure." He nudged his glass toward Desmond. "Would you pour this for me, please?"

Desmond grinned, turning back toward the table, and picked up the pitcher. He skillfully poured into the glass and pushed it back. "There you go."

"_Thank you_," said Malik, picking up the glass and taking a long drink of sour, salty margarita. He swallowed and closed his eyes, shuddering at the harsh taste of the tequila and the mild burn of coarse salt against his lips.

Altaïr downed the rest of his shot, then chased it with Monster. "_Fuck_ this noise," he said into the can.

"Be nice," said Desmond. "It's only five minutes long."

Altaïr poured himself a margarita and watched Malik take a second drink of his. His nose crinkled only slightly as he licked the salt from his lips, watching the young man on stage warble and keen his way through Simon and Garfunkel.

"He is not so bad, really," said Leonardo thoughtfully, having finished his first margarita and moved on to a second, this one from the pitcher.

Desmond laughed. "Leo, you're _such_ a lightweight."

Leonardo shook his head, taking a bite of his sopapilla. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "I am an _optimist_. I try to see the good in everything. He has very good stage presence."

With a frown, Desmond looked over his shoulder to see the young man onstage rocking side to side, eyes glued to the television screen in front of him.

Leonardo giggled into his glass. "I made you look," he said, and Desmond rolled his eyes. "Okay, let me through, I will put these in." He stood, nudging gently past Desmond, and made his way to the DJ.

Ezio bit his lip and watched Leonardo's backside as he left. Altaïr grinned at him. "Enjoying the view?" he asked, and Ezio blushed.

"_Well_... yeah," he admitted, reaching out as Leonardo returned and hugging him.

Leonardo smiled, turning rapt attention to his food.

Nathan awkwardly set the microphone on the table. He wrung his hands and left the stage to a small round of applause.

"_Shit_," said Desmond quietly, nudging Leonardo. "That _dick_ from the computer lab is here." He tossed his head slightly to direct Leonardo's attention to Shaun, who was seated in a table near the window with two girls, one of whom Desmond recognized from the computer lab and the other of whom he didn't know.

The girls each had a shot of tequila in front of them and two empty shotglasses lined up at their elbows. Desmond watched as they took the shots, then followed them with a lemon wedge. He noticed that Shaun did not look pleased to be with them.

Leonardo giggled. "He has _company_," he said observantly, drinking deeply.

Malik looked over and smiled faintly at Altaïr. "What did I tell you about this man?"

"He's... he's a lab monitor," said Altaïr vaguely, watching a young girl named Rachel head to the stage to sing.

"Indeed." Malik took another long drink from his margarita, finishing it off. "And he is flanked," he said, swirling the ice in the bottom of the glass, "by two very attractive women."

"Yeah... You wouldn't know it looking at him," said Altaïr.

"Precisely." Malik picked up the first pitcher and emptied it carefully into his glass, then promptly drained the glass in two swallows.

"Well, aren't _you_ clever," Altaïr grumbled.

A wicked smile flickered in Malik's eyes. "I am," he said, taking a bite of his enchilada.

Altaïr opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Instead, he watched Malik put his fork down and reach for the bowl of chips.

"Did I miss something?" Ezio asked, watching Shaun with interest.

"Oh, _nothing_," said Leonardo. "This is just a _friend_ of Desmond's." He grinned and took a long drink from his glass and pointed to the stage. "This girl is good, no?"

The girl on stage, Rachel, was singing _Black Horse and Cherry Tree_ in a surprisingly strong voice. She couldn't have been more than eighteen but had the poise of someone much older. The five military men at the center table were thrilled.

Leonardo poured another glass for Malik, smiling at him across the table, and Malik nodded gratefully.

"That was Rachel with some KT Tunstall," said the DJ as the girl smiled over her shoulder and brushed past the table to sit with her party. "Next up we have- correct me if I say this wrong- Ezio? And Leonardo?"

"That's right!" shouted Altaïr, delightedly clapping his hands, and Ezio's face reddened deeply as Leonardo stood up to pull him out of the booth.


	37. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXXVII

Ezio picked up his glass, quickly finished his drink, and shot Altaïr a glare as he followed Leonardo to the stage. The intro kicked in, shrill disco with heavy bass, and Leonardo set his glass down on the table next to the television and handed Ezio the second microphone, tapping his toes to the beat and grinning, his nose crinkling cutely. He took a breath and sang along with the pink text on the screen.

"_Che confusione, sarà perché ti amo, è un'emozione, che cresce piano, piano. Stringimi forte e stammi più vicino... se ci sto bene, sarà perché ti amo_."

Ezio couldn't keep back a smile. He tucked a hand in the pocket of his slacks and watched the pink text turn yellow and encroach on the blue. "_Io canto al ritmo del dolce tuo respiro, è primavera, sarà perché ti amo_," he sang, his face feeling hot as he looked around the room. He knew the song well, and didn't need to focus on the television.

They sang the chorus together, Leonardo moving into Ezio's space to put a hand at the small of his back, singing with absolute conviction and delight. Ezio relaxed slightly when he saw that the five large camouflaged men in the center of the room were grinning at him.

"This is _easily_ the gayest thing I have ever witnessed." Altaïr poured himself another margarita and waved the waiter over to order another pitcher.

"Mm." Malik leaned forward, sipping from his margarita and watching as Ezio finally wrapped an arm around Leonardo's back, feeling more comfortable at his sudden realization that no one in the room knew what the lyrics meant. He shifted his gaze to Altaïr and a shrewd smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. "They fit well together, I think," he said after a moment.

Altaïr chuckled. "Get a load of Leo... he's _so_ into it."

"He is, as you say... so _into_ Ezio." Malik moved the bowl of tortilla chips closer.

"_Yeah_." Altaïr chewed his lip. The affection he saw in Leonardo's eyes as he sang with Ezio made his stomach writhe. He surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder at Malik, watching his dark eyes for a moment before turning away again. "_Love_, yuck," he said, as a five-year old boy might.

Desmond rested his arm on the back of his chair, smiling. "I think it's cute." He tilted his head to the side, setting his head on his forearm. "Ezio's kind of shy. It's _endearing_."

The waiter arrived and set a new full pitcher on the table and Altaïr picked it up and poured, frowning when a trickle ran down the side of the pitcher and pooled on the table. Malik _giggled_ beside him, and Altaïr sighed.

"You are _spilling_, do not do this," said Malik, picking up his napkin and setting it in the small puddle on the tabletop.

"_Okay_, I'm cutting you off," said Altaïr, clapping as the song ended and Ezio awkwardly shuffled off of the stage and Leonardo took his hand and hopped down behind him.

"I have had only three," said Malik. "Are you not happy that I am happy, Altaïr?"

Desmond grinned and watched Leonardo and Ezio climb into the booth. "Nicely done," he said.

"Thanks," Ezio said. Leonardo grinned and rested his head on Ezio's shoulder.

Altaïr sighed, shaking his head at Malik. "I'm going to go pee," he said, standing and heading into the restaurant.

He returned to the table to find Ezio seated sideways in the booth, gently holding Leonardo against his chest. Desmond was watching a middle-aged woman in a yellow feather boa unsuccessfully singing _Copacabana_, and Malik was finishing his dinner.

Altaïr slid into the booth and rested his elbows on the table. He picked up his Monster and finished it off quickly, lifting a hand to rub his forehead.

"That was... _Lola_ with some Barry Manilow," said the DJ, sounding utterly bewildered. "Next up we have Shaun... come on up, Shaun!"

Desmond covered his mouth to muffle his giggles as Shaun took the stage and picked up the microphone. He wore a half-buttoned cardigan over a lavender dress shirt with black slacks and shoes; his ginger hair was deliberately mussed. He smiled a little, nervously adjusting his glasses as a long funk intro played over the amps, then took a drink of his Long Island iced tea and set the glass on the table.


	38. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXXVIII

The screen, bright blue with yellow text, reflected brightly on Shaun's glasses, obscuring his eyes. He picked up the microphone cord and shot a glance at his two friends, who raised their shotglasses to him, before he started to sing.

"_Let's dance, put on your red shoes and dance the blues_..."

His voice was taut, a bit strained. He coughed into his shoulder and smiled weakly. "_Let's dance, to the song they're playing on the radio_..."

The two girls whistled, and Shaun's cheeks reddened. "_Let's sway, while color lights up your face_... _let's sway, sway through the crowd to an empty space_." His voice was gaining strength, his impression of David Bowie becoming surprisingly credible. He grinned a little as the military men cheered for him.

"He is... _not bad_," said Leonardo diplomatically, tilting his head and watching Shaun's body relax, his toes tapping in time with the heavy drums.

"He's..." Desmond ran his fingers through his close-cropped brown hair, straddling the back of his chair and fixing an intense gaze on Shaun. His elbows rested on the back of the chair, his left hand holding his right arm and his right wrist by his ear. He chewed his lip appraisingly, silently.

"_If you say run, I'll run with you_... _and if you say hide, we'll hide_."

Altaïr sat sideways in the booth, his legs hanging over the edge of the seat, shoulder leaned against the backrest. Malik surreptitiously looked over to Ezio and Leonardo, then slid closer, pulling his knee under him. Altaïr's scent, sweat and Axe body spray, overwhelmed him. He dropped a hot kiss at the base of his neck, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt back with a low growl.

"Mal?" Altaïr jumped at the wet heat of Malik's tongue on his neck, followed by teeth on edge dragging along tender skin.

"_Altaïr_," Malik murmured. His voice had retained a rough accent, the final letter of the name rolling, sending a shudder down Altaïr's spine. Fingers sought out the ribbing at the hem of Altaïr's sweatshirt and shoved it upward, searching for the heat of skin under his black T-shirt. Finally Malik found what he was looking for and dragged long fingernails down one side of Altaïr's spine, leaving stinging trails.

A tremor rumbled through Altaïr's body and he inhaled sharply through his teeth, ducking his head. Malik smiled, satisfied at the pink flush over Altaïr's cheeks, the slight parting of his lips. He kissed Altaïr's neck again, gently, and sighed onto sweaty skin, digging his nails into Altaïr's side. "Will you do what I ask of you tonight?" he murmured.

"Y-yeah," Altaïr grunted, picking up a glass of water and taking a long drink to distract himself from the demanding sharp pressure above his hip. He focused his attention on Shaun, who was clearly enjoying himself on the stage, relishing the attention.

"Very good," said Malik.

Desmond felt his cheeks warm and he looked away from the stage, discomfited by the inescapable sensuality in Shaun's voice.

The bar exploded with applause as Shaun picked up his Long Island iced tea, took a long drink, and nodded his head genially, grinning and stepping down from the stage.

"That was Shaun with some David Bowie... _nice job_, man," said the DJ, and Shaun flushed.

"_Yo_!" One of the young men at the center table held up a huge hand for a high-five, and Shaun grabbed it and shook it, out of breath. He sat down with the two girls and they hugged him, giggling.

Malik leaned on the table and pulled his water glass closer to drink from it. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, refocusing his attention.

"Next up we have the... _what does this say_? Er... Black Market Boys?" The DJ laughed. "Black Market Boys, I guess- come on up, guys."

The five soldiers got up from their seats, grinning at Shaun's table as they passed. One of them picked up the microphone from the table. "We're getting redeployed," he said. "We're going back to Iraq tomorrow."

A small handful of people applauded.

"You think it's so cool, you should try it," quipped one of the other young men over a guitar intro, laughing when he received a gentle elbow to the gut.

The first man laughed, and the other four crowded around the other microphone. "_You are my fire, the one desire_... _believe when I say that I want it that way_," he sang. The other four grinned, draping arms over each other's shoulders.

The other four joined in for the next verse, and the bar went wild. Desmond noticed with mixed feelings that Shaun looked offended as he finished off his iced tea. His companions were enthralled by the men on stage.

The camouflaged men were very entertaining; they had clearly studied the music video and threw in some choice moves, eliciting small bursts of laughter from the audience. They were all crew-cut and butch, tattooed and tough-looking, but the young man who had taken the lead had a very sweet voice, well suited to the saccharine song.

Leonardo nudged Desmond, who was preoccupied with watching Shaun melancholically drink his water, his hand covering the mouth of the glass, the straw held between tapering fingers curled over the lip. "You are not thinking of abandoning us here for the night?" he laughed.

"What?" Desmond pulled his gaze from Shaun to frown at Leonardo. "_No_, Jesus," he chuckled. "The guy's a jerk. I just... feel kind of _bad_ for him. He did a really good job, you know?"

"My friend, you are compassionate perhaps to a fault," said Malik.

Desmond sighed. "I guess." He glanced once more to Shaun, then flushed and turned back to the table when their eyes met.

"_Now I can see that we've fallen apart from the way that we used to be, yeah_... _no matter the distance, I want you to know that deep down inside of me_..."

"Anyway, Desmond," said Leonardo, "did you turn in your... er..." He relaxed into Ezio's chest, searching for a word. "Your paper?" He gestured to the binder.

"Oh... my request? Yeah. I'm probably next," he said, "because I'm right before-"

Desmond was cut off by a loud burst of applause and whistling as the song ended. It seemed to go on forever.

"Support our troops?" said Altaïr, and Ezio giggled, resting his chin on the top of Leonardo's head.

"Nicely done... that was the Black Market Boys doing some Backstreet Boys for us... next up, we have Desmond... and if you're having a good time, I like vodka bombs." The DJ chuckled and Desmond shrugged out of his jacket and made his way to the stage. He took the microphone and held the cord in loops in his other hand, clearing his throat against his shoulder.

"_If it seems like I've been lost in let's remember, if you think I'm getting older and missing my younger days, whoa, then you should have known me much better, 'cause my past is something that never got in my way, oh no_."

Leonardo whistled, long and loud, and Desmond's cheeks reddened as he started the next verse.

"He is _very good_," said Leonardo. He giggled when Ezio's grip tightened around his waist.

The waiter approached the table with a tray and set five full shotglasses down on the table. "These are from the gentlemen at that table," he said, gesturing to the military men, who waved.

"Thanks!" said Ezio.

"No problem, man," said the young man nearest them. "Enjoy!"

Altaïr lifted his eyebrows. "_Nice_," he said, reaching for one of the shotglasses.

"Maybe we should wait till Desmond gets back," Ezio mused, touching Altaïr's hand.

There was a pause. "Yeah, you're right." Altaïr turned back toward the stage to watch Desmond, who was dancing through a musical break, looking very pleased.

Malik pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked the time, then nodded and set the phone down on the table. He smiled, almost nervously, and once again slid his hand under Altaïr's shirt, this time touching him with gentle fingers and sliding his arm around his thin waist, watching over his shoulder.

Altaïr tensed at the soft touch, then relaxed, his eyes closing momentarily as he settled against Malik's shoulder. He smiled as Malik kissed softly behind his ear, pulling him in tighter.

"_You can get just so much from a good thing, you can linger too long in your dreams_..."

"Do you wish to go home tonight with Leonardo and Ezio?" Malik murmured against Altaïr's ear.

Altaïr shivered. "I... I wouldn't mind," he said.

With a gentle bite at the base of Altaïr's neck, Malik nodded. "Very good. This is what I wanted to hear." He smiled when Altaïr tilted his head to the side, nonchalantly baring his neck for another bite, harder this time, eliciting the tiniest of yelps.

"_Fuck_," Altaïr whispered, covering the sore spot with his hand.

Malik chuckled. "My friend, have you become... _unused _to such things? This is a pity... perhaps it has been too long." He stroked Altaïr's stomach. "I wish to remedy this."

Altaïr felt his cheeks warm again and glanced to the shotglasses on the table. The margaritas had been weak and his inhibitions were still intact; Malik's low, growling voice, the short goatee rubbing against his earlobe, equally aroused and embarrassed him.

He closed his eyes and relished the soft touch of Malik's fingers ruffling coarse hair on his stomach, shivering at a sudden rush of sense memory as fingertips crept under the waistband of his boxers.

"_You know the good old days weren't always good, and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems_."

"Malik..." Altaïr squirmed and Malik chuckled softly into his hair, moving his fingers lower, brushing dense wiry hair. "This is... _not_ a good idea," Altaïr mumbled as a pleasurable shudder rolled down his spine.

"You will _do_ as I request... verbally or otherwise," Malik growled, idly dragging fingernails up Altaïr's abdomen. "Or are you _backing out_?"

Altaïr exhaled shakily, stammering momentarily before attempting to collect himself. His cheeks were hot and red and a gentle ache had settled into his groin. He tried to formulate a reply, but the cool pressure of Malik's palm against his stomach, under his shirt, was too distracting. He shook his head and took a drink from his water glass, then turned his attention to the tail end of Desmond's performance.

"That was Desmond, giving us some Billy Joel... give him a hand, folks!" said the DJ. "And next up we have _Al-tyre_... come on up!"

Altaïr frowned. He had met only one person who pronounced his name in such a way. He looked over his shoulder to Malik, who was smiling puckishly, dark eyes narrowed.

"_No_. No, no, no," said Altaïr, his eyes wide.

"Altaïr," Malik growled, "will you or will you not _do as you are told_?" There was an odd flash in his eyes, both golden and red at once.

"I..." Altaïr paused, looking carefully at Malik. "Y-yeah." He stood as Desmond returned, took a shot of tequila with Ezio, and headed up to the stage as though it were the gallows.


	39. La Vendetta degli Amanti XXXIX

Altaïr took the microphone from the table, feeling his heart rattling his ribcage, his cheeks flushing. The screen showed the production label. He swallowed, his mouth feeling dry from nerves and tequila, and pulled his sweatshirt down over his hips ineffectually.

"Oh _sweet Jesus_," he muttered under his breath, chuckling as the title came up on the screen. "_Really_?"

He heard Malik's voice in the back of his head, growling low and rough: _do it, Altaïr. Do not disappoint me_. His cheeks reddened further and he nodded, clearing his throat.

"_You're a real tough cookie with a long history of breakin' little hearts like the one in me_... _that's okay, let's see how you do it, put up your dukes, let's get down to it_!" Altaïr hung his head, grinning in disbelief, more amused than irritated now that the song had started. This was something Malik would have done some time before, _before_ things had become seemingly irreparable between them. "_Hit me with your best shot, why don't you hit me with your best shot_? _Hit me with your best shot, fire away_!"

He could faintly hear Leonardo whistling for him and the rest of the room singing along. The middle-aged woman at the bar, Lola, was the loudest. She was still wearing her feather boa and clutching a pint glass.

Altaïr knew that Malik was smiling at him from across the room; somehow he could feel those eyes on him. He could hear the effects of the alcohol on his voice. His skin felt hot, slightly sweaty under the directed track lights suspended from the ceiling. He focused on the screen and on keeping his voice level.

The guitar solo was a welcome break after the second chorus; his voice faltered at the beginning of the third verse and he chuckled, ducking his head.

"_Before I put another notch in my lipstick case, you'd better make sure you put me in my place_..."

Ezio cheered and Altaïr blushed scarlet, lifting his eyes to glare across the room.

"_Hit me with your best shot, c'mon, hit me with your best shot_..." Altaïr fumbled with the microphone, then laughed nervously as he nearly dropped it. He tucked his left hand into the pocket of his jeans, suddenly embarrassed. He wondered briefly if this was all that Malik had meant, if he had only wanted him to be humiliated publicly.

"_Hit me with your best shot, fire away_!" He held the last note, closing his eyes with a pained frown as his voice shook.

"That was _Al-tyre_ with some Pat Benetar!" said the DJ, and Altaïr swallowed and climbed off of the stage, where he was high-fived on his way back to the table. "We've got Molly up next- Molly, come on up!"

Altaïr reached the table and frowned at Malik, who was grinning up at him like a cat.

"That was _very cute_," said Malik. The look of utter _joy_ on his face almost made Altaïr uncomfortable.

"Thanks?" Altaïr sat beside him.

"I _thought_ that it would be sexy but I was sorely mistaken," Malik laughed, downing his shot of tequila and shuddering.

"Oh... _Mal_," Altaïr grunted.

"To be _honest_," Malik began, but Leonardo held up a hand to shush him.

"Thanks," said Altaïr, looking at Malik askance. "I'll take _cute_ at face value."

Leonardo smiled. "_I_ thought it was very good. You did not sound drunk at all!"


	40. La Vendetta degli Amanti XL

"_Shh_," giggled Altaïr as Malik growled at the base of his neck. He looked over his shoulder and jogged up the stairs, laughing softly.

"I hope we don't disturb your neighbors," mused Desmond, following Leonardo as he turned and headed up the second flight of stairs.

Leonardo chuckled wryly, holding Ezio's hand. "_Well_, if we can get into my apartment, we will be _fine_. It is only the..." He trailed off, looking behind him and giggling.

Malik grabbed Altaïr's sweatshirt and shoved him against the wall on the landing, leaning up to kiss him fiercely. Altaïr moaned into his mouth and tangled his fingers in dark messy hair, his breath hitching in his throat as Malik nipped a trail down his neck and bit down roughly.

"_Ah_... Mal..." Altaïr fussed softly, sliding his hand down to the back of Malik's neck. "W-wait until we get inside... _Mal_..."

A soft chuckle rumbled in Malik's throat and he nodded, pleased. He forcefully pushed Altaïr against the wall again and followed Desmond.

Altaïr shook his head, blushing at the sudden slight tightening of his jeans, and followed.

Leonardo opened the door and led them down the hall to his apartment. Altaïr touched Malik's side gently and was rewarded with a sly smile and another shove against the wall, this one gentler.

"_Malik_," Ezio admonished. "The... the neighbors." He gestured vaguely. Altaïr heard the faintest growl as he was left pressed against the wall and Malik turned on his heel to walk into the apartment.

Taking a deep breath, Altaïr followed him and shut the door.

"Okay," said Leonardo gently. "The... the bathroom is _there_... and... Desmond, honey, can I get you a beer? Anything?"

Ezio took Leonardo's hips in his hands and kissed the back of his neck, and Leonardo swatted him playfully.

"Mm... Fat Tire would be nice if you've got it," said Desmond.

"Of _course_," said Leonardo, heading to the kitchen. Desmond smiled and watched him.

Ezio looked at Desmond appraisingly, and a sudden wicked smile formed on his lips. "Hey, Desmond," he said.

Desmond lifted his eyebrows, tilting his head slightly. "Yeah?"

"Give me a kiss," said Ezio. He was pleased at the slight flush that crossed Desmond's cheeks as he crossed the distance between them.

"Okay." Desmond grinned and pulled Ezio's hair from its ponytail, then curled his fingers in dark locks to pull Ezio in for a hard kiss.

Ezio gasped, and Desmond's fist tightened in his hair. He growled under his breath and shoved Desmond against the wall, biting down on his lip. "Alright," he muttered against Desmond's lips, yanking at the bartender's woven leather belt. He unbuckled it and slid it free from the belt loops. "If you want it that way."

Desmond chuckled as Ezio wrapped the belt around his wrists. "_Okay_," he said.

Leonardo returned with two opened beers and giggled. "This is unexpected," he said sweetly.

Ezio tightened the belt and looped the end between Desmond's wrists a few times.

Malik chuckled. "I... will return," he said shortly, taking Altaïr's chin in his hand and kissing him, then turning and departing for the bathroom.

Altaïr touched his lower lip. An odd thrill ran through him as he watched Malik smile slightly over his shoulder and then bump into the corner of a wall and swear under his breath.

Leonardo picked up the remote control and pressed a button; quiet music began to play through the speakers. Desmond took his beer from Leonardo in bound hands and rolled his eyes at Ezio, who looked very pleased with his handiwork.

"Honey, untie him," said Leonardo to Ezio, leading the others to the couches. "Let him drink his beer."

Desmond shook his head. "I like a challenge," he said with a naughty grin, sitting.

Ezio smiled a little, seating himself beside Desmond, and watched Altaïr sit quietly on the bartender's other side. "You okay, man?" he murmured under his breath.

"Yeah," said Altaïr with a mild smile. "Just... he's _lit_. He hasn't done this in a long time."

"I can tell," said Leonardo. "Do you think he will be alright?"

"Sure," Altaïr replied. "Maybe hungover."

"I can hear you," said Malik, opening the door and returning to the sitting room.

Altaïr blushed. "Okay. Sorry. Thought you'd never get done... I'm next." He climbed over the back of the couch, earning him a sharp smack on the backside from Leonardo.

"You break it, you buy it, _amico mio_," said Leonardo. "Malik, come and join us." He gestured to the couch as Altaïr left the room, flushed and rubbing his ass through his jeans.

Malik sat beside Leonardo, who took a drink of his beer, then set it on the coffee table and pulled his friend closer. "Malik... may I kiss you?" Leonardo murmured.

"I suppose that I would... be amenable to that," said Malik with a sly smile, closing his eyes and allowing Leonardo to kiss him and mouth his lips.

"_Mm_." Malik smiled into the kiss, parting his lips and sighing in pleasure as Leonardo stroked his side. He slid Malik's shirttails free from his black slacks and splayed slim fingers along his ribs, eliciting a shiver as Malik tilted his head to the side.

Leonardo sighed over his throat, kissing down to his collar. He took a measured breath and stroked Malik's chest, fingers grazing over a nipple and causing Malik to gasp softly. "_Mi dispiace_," he said insincerely, and Malik chuckled as Leonardo shifted his weight and straddled his thighs.

The bathroom door opened and Malik turned his head abruptly. Altaïr shuffled toward the sitting room, drying his hands on his jeans.

"_Malik_... what do you want?" Leonardo murmured into his friend's ear, nuzzling coarse sideburns.

"Him," said Malik, his voice rough. A very faint smile nudged the corners of his lips, but the corners of his eyes crinkled as he looked at Altaïr with unguarded affection and hunger. "I want him."

Leonardo smiled brightly and kissed Malik once more before shifting off of his legs.

Malik watched Altaïr with dark eyes. "Altaïr. Come here."

Altaïr bit down on his lower lip, a slight smile warming his face as he approached. He sat sideways on the couch, facing Malik, who smiled and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Altaïr sighed pleasurably, working at unbuttoning Malik's olive-green dress shirt, shifting to straddle his lap.

Malik pulled free from the kiss and tilted his head, sliding his hand along Altaïr's denim-clad calf. "You- _ah_..." He shuddered and closed his eyes as Altaïr kissed a hot trail along his collarbone, nudging the shirt open until it fell from Malik's shoulders, the right side of the shirt hanging off of his elbow and the left crumpling onto the couch. Malik arched his chest toward Altaïr, softly grunting when the soft wetness of his lips pulled away.

"_I_-" Altaïr's face went white and he looked at Leonardo, then at Desmond and Ezio, who were occupied in playful foreplay with Desmond's hands still tightly bound, then back to Malik in a terrifying split second. "I'm so sorry, Mal," he said, fumbling at Malik's shirt to pull it back over his left shoulder.

Malik's eyes opened; they were dark, almost vicious with lust. He shoved the shirt away and grabbed Altaïr's hand roughly, such that the bones shifted in his palm and Altaïr gasped in pain. "Altaïr," he growled, placing Altaïr's hand over the scar where his left arm abruptly ended. "_Get used to it_."

Altaïr began to flinch away but thought better of it. His hand tensed over smooth scar tissue, his thighs clenching around Malik's.

"It will not go away." Malik's voice rumbled against Altaïr's neck, his lips moving against soft skin, his tongue darting out to wet it.

His jaw tensed and teeth sank into flesh, a gentle bite from Malik but rather harsh from most anyone else. Altaïr moaned, his voice tight, higher than usual, and slid his hand down Malik's bared chest to unbutton his slacks. Malik clicked his tongue at him.

"I am driving tonight," he murmured, and then, forcefully, grabbed the front of Altaïr's sweatshirt in a strong fist. "This. Take this off, and your shirt."

Altaïr's cheeks flushed deeply and he struggled out of his hoodie, throwing it onto the floor. He gasped in pleasant surprise as Malik's hand slid up his thigh and carefully worked the zipper of his jeans open, then shuddered at the low moan that bled from Malik's lips.

He pulled his T-shirt off and Malik bit down hard just above his nipple, eliciting a soft whimper. Dizzy with pleasure, Altaïr only nodded and panted as Malik's tongue slid repeatedly over sensitive skin, teasing his nipple until it stood erect, and then sharp teeth gently bit down.

"Lie down," growled Malik. "Or I will throw you on the floor." He bit down on the cuff of his shirt and pulled his arm free from the sleeve.

Altaïr shifted off of Malik's thighs and onto the couch, panting and lying back, reaching with legs lifted.

"Do me this favor." Malik shifted closer, so that Altaïr's hands barely brushed his hips. He grasped the left and placed it on the zipper of his slacks, lifting his eyebrows.

"_Yes_," Altaïr breathed, sliding the zipper down and then softly whining when Malik pulled away with muttered thanks.

The sound of a low moan distracted Altaïr; he turned his head and groaned upon seeing Desmond on his knees in front of Ezio, sucking him off. His hands were tied behind his back now, and Leonardo was behind him, grinning, holding the end of the belt in a curled hand, his knees holding Desmond's hips still. His other hand was on the back of Desmond's head, pressing downward. Altaïr gasped upon realizing that Ezio, too, was bound, his own hands tied behind his back with his belt.

"_Focus_, Altaïr," Malik said, his tone sharp.

Altaïr looked up at Malik, his eyes dark with need. "Sorry," he grunted.

Malik smiled; the darkness in his eyes contained a playful warning. "Take off your pants." The authority in his voice seemed to cut off the air supply to Altaïr's brain and he moaned dizzily. "_Now_," Malik ordered.

Nodding, Altaïr fumbled out of tight blue jeans, shredded in patches on the knees and thighs, and Malik helped him pull them off. He was nearly completely naked; he flushed red when Malik lifted his eyebrows and murmured "_continue_."

He slid out of his boxer shorts and Malik groaned appreciatively. He wrapped his hand around Altaïr's hard length and licked gently at the tip, and Altaïr moaned, gripping the couch cushion in a shaking hand. The wet heat of Malik's mouth slid over him, engulfing him, and his chest shuddered. He reached to tangle his fingers in coarse, sweaty hair, but Malik growled over him and pushed his hand away.

A low moan, bookended by heavy panting, rattled Altaïr's ribcage. He groped ineffectually at the couch, then reached again for the back of Malik's head. He stroked his hair gently, arching slightly upward. Malik swallowed around him and Altaïr's fingers curled in Malik's hair as a soft cry escaped from his lips. He tried to push Malik's head down further and was rewarded with fingernails digging harsh and sharp into his wrist, pinning it to his side.

Altaïr could only watch as Malik's mouth lowered onto him again; he groaned desperately and Malik threaded their fingers together, pressing down hard on what remained of Altaïr's ring finger, eliciting a cry of mixed pain and pleasure as he rolled a finger over the end of the bone.

"_Malik_," Altaïr panted. His hips twitched involuntarily as Malik's tongue flicked along the underside of his shaft. "_Ah_... oh _God_, Mal... M-Malik, I'm..." He whined, struggling against Malik's hand, bucking out of rhythm until his hips seemed to lock up and he came, shuddering, breathing Malik's name repeatedly, urgently, and then a few times more, tenderly, hitching, nearly sobbing.

Malik pulled back and swallowed, coughing. He let go of Altaïr's hand to wipe the corner of his mouth on his wrist.

They looked to Ezio, who was still panting but now sated and untied; he was seated behind Leonardo, clearly servicing him with dexterous hands and enjoying every minute of it.

The artist had Desmond awkwardly lying on the floor, propped on his elbows. Desmond was still dressed, panting and desperate, and Leonardo was taking his sweet time pulling him free from his slacks and black briefs. "_Amico mio_," murmured Leonardo, wrapping a hand around Desmond's length and stroking casually. "Be patient."

Malik growled softly, sitting back on his heels and pushing his slacks down to rest at his upper thighs.

Altaïr shuddered, his hand twitching toward the bulge in Malik's tight briefs. He paused. "What would you like me to do?"

"_Watch_," Malik replied gruffly, shifting the fly of his briefs open and wrapping his hand around his cock.

Altaïr's breath caught in his throat and he nearly choked as he watched Malik slowly pump himself. "Oh _God_ yes," he breathed, watching a bead of fluid slide down the underside of Malik's length, slicking the movement of his hand.

Malik watched Altaïr with a smirk and slid the pad of his thumb over the tip, spreading the moisture there and pulling it down over the shaft, which throbbed heavily in his hand. "_Altaïr_," he growled, the sound low in his chest, the final consonant rolling, making Altaïr shiver with desire.

Altaïr slid a hand over Malik's collarbones, then downward, ruffling coarse dark hair, forefinger and thumb pinching his nipple.

He kissed Malik's shoulder heatedly, panting, and Malik nuzzled his hair affectionately, breathing him in, closing his eyes and letting his imagination run free, picturing taking Altaïr from behind, the two of them bent over Malik's old desk, relishing the gasps and moans, the streams of profanity that tumbled from Altaïr's lips, sharp cries with each snap and roll of Malik's hips.

"Yes... _unh_..." Malik moaned deeply, beginning to pant as Altaïr's tongue teased one nipple, his thumb rubbing the other, pressing it down, pinching it, tugging on it. "_Altaïr_..."

Altaïr lapped wetly at the dark, erect nipple in his mouth, enjoying the soft sounds that escaped Malik's throat, watching the pace of his hand increase. He took a breath around sensitive flesh, pulling cold air over wet skin; Malik hissed through his teeth and growled, low and animalistic, then groaned in pleasure when the heat of Altaïr's mouth returned.

"I... I will not last," Malik grunted, and a soft moan, filled with animal lust, escaped from Altaïr's lips. "_Kiss me, Altaïr_."

"_Yeah_." Altaïr leaned upward and kissed Malik hotly, moving to straddle muscular thighs. "You want to come on me, Mal?" he murmured.

"Kiss me," Malik repeated urgently, and Altaïr wrapped an arm around Malik's neck, kissing him violently, teeth clicking and tongues clashing; he swallowed Malik's moan, relished the upward desperate arch of his hips and the sudden jerk as Malik lost it, spilling white and hot, splashing both of their chests.

Their lips parted and Malik cried out softly, shuddering as he squeezed himself; Altaïr's lips descended upon his neck, laying tender kisses on his skin and tasting salty sweat.

"_Altaïr_," Malik breathed.

Altaïr smiled, nuzzling into his neck. "_Malik_."

"Get me a tissue."

There was a pause, and then Altaïr laughed delightedly, taking a few tissues from the box on the table beside the couch and helping Malik to wipe his hand clean. He blushed and wiped his chest clean, sitting back on Malik's thighs and watching him do the same.

"Thank you," said Malik, his eyes grazing over Altaïr's naked body. "Help me out of my clothes... I... I want to hold you."


	41. La Vendetta degli Amanti XLI

Altaïr awoke on the couch, tangled in Malik's legs. His head rested on the other man's naked shoulder, his fingers lightly curled on his bicep.

He opened his eyes and blearily collected that Desmond was asleep on the other couch, hugging a pillow tightly at his chest rather than resting his head on it. Leonardo and Ezio were missing, although he was relatively certain he heard the shower running and, possibly, soft laughter.

For a minute or two he breathed against Malik's chest, enjoying the traces of cologne, perhaps smelling more like incense. He sighed softly, pleasurably, and smiled at the memory of the night before, and then, frustratingly, realized that he had to pee. He realized also that Malik was stirring beneath him, and leaned up to kiss his slightly-bruised lips.

Malik grunted dazedly, pawing around until his hand landed on a soft expanse of skin, resting on Altaïr's shoulderblade. "_What_..." He opened his eyes and quickly shut them against the light, groaning as a dull ache thudded in his head.

"_Good morning_," Altaïr whispered. "Can I get you anything?"

"_Ungh_." Malik swallowed hard and made a face. "Why are you on top of me, Altaïr?"

Altaïr's eyes widened in surprise. "Y-you don't remember?"

"I am..." Malik shifted and grunted thoughtfully. "Naked," he finished after a moment. "And you are-"

"Also naked," Altaïr said helpfully, his voice urging Malik on.

"_Oh_." Malik sighed. "I thought so. Allow me to recollect." He pawed around and Altaïr handed him his shirt, which he then put over his head. Altaïr tried not to laugh. He instead shifted his weight off of Malik's frame to lie beside him. He twitched away in surprise and embarrassment as his hand grazed Malik's left limb, and he heard an exasperated grunt from beneath olive-green fabric.

"How's the... the recollection going?" asked Altaïr after a long moment's silence.

"I have recollected _more than enough_," Malik said, pulling the shirt off of his face, looking deeply annoyed. "And I cannot deny that it is my fault that this-"

"_Fault_?" Altaïr spat, sudden irrational anger flickering in his golden eyes. "There is no _fault_-"

"_Enough_!" Malik growled, grasping Altaïr's shoulder and throwing him violently off of the couch.

A deep grunt told them that Desmond was awake. "What's going on?" the bartender asked, shifting to sit up. He yawned and looked at Malik, who self-consciously reached for something, _anything_, to cover himself. He settled for tucking his left side shyly against the couch.

"Desmond, this is not your problem," said Altaïr quickly, gingerly rubbing his knee. He had barked it on the corner of the coffee table on his way to the floor and it was bleeding; the scrapes from the previous day's hard landing were red with purple bruises. He had cleaned the gravel from them, but there were still indentations from the larger pieces.

Malik felt shame well in his chest as he looked at Altaïr. His head ached and he was sick to his stomach from the alcohol, but also in no small part from the feeling that he had betrayed the memory of his brother. Exponentially worse, frustrating and puzzling, was the fact that he could not help but feel _affection_ for the other man. The throbbing in his head only made it worse. "_Get out of my sight_," he growled, the sound deep in his chest.

A vise seemed to tighten around his heart at the unconcealed pain he saw in Altaïr's eyes as he scrambled for his clothes and left the room, ultimately finding the second, smaller bathroom and throwing the door shut.

Desmond, too, stood. He had gotten up in the middle of the night to put on a pair of boxers- which had turned out, to his chagrin, not to be his, but Ezio's instead- and his black T-shirt. Quietly, he left the room for the kitchen.

Malik swore as unbidden tears came to his already-stinging eyes. He pulled his briefs on and swallowed hard, then fumbled with his slacks to detangle the rumpled mess of fabric.

"_Hey_." The voice was soft and came from the kitchen door. Blearily, Malik looked up to see Desmond holding a glass of red liquid and a small bottle. He padded into the room and crouched at Malik's side, pressing the glass into his hand. "Tomato juice," he said gently. "It'll help."

There was a pause, in which Malik mentally ran through the possible tongue-lashing he could deal out to the bartender, and then a tear settled itself on his lower lashes. He blinked and it slid down his cheek, only to be brushed away tenderly.

"Why do you do this?" asked Malik finally, lifting the glass to his lips and drinking.

Desmond shrugged placidly, uncapping the white bottle and tipping two brown pills out of it. "Here's some ibuprofen," he said, taking the tomato juice back and handing the pills to Malik.

Malik took the pills and followed them with a long drink of juice. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Don't mention it," said Desmond. "Can I get you anything else?"

Malik shook his head, and then groaned in displeasure. He closed his eyes and felt the world spin a bit faster and then slow down again, the throb in his skull growing, then fading slightly. "Well," he said after a moment, his cheeks flushing, "maybe... maybe help me... with my _pants_." He ducked his head in embarrassment, setting his glass on the table.

"_Oh_... of course," Desmond murmured, picking the slacks up and disentangling the slightly wrinkled fabric. He helped Malik slide his legs into them, and then supported him on his shoulder and pulled them up. Malik nodded his thanks, fastened his trousers, and sat heavily, curling his hand dizzily over his face.

The door to the small bathroom opened and Altaïr crept out, looking for a moment toward the couch and then walking into the kitchen. He was dressed, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up to shade his eyes. After only a few seconds, the other bathroom door clicked and swung open, and Ezio and Leonardo padded into the living room. "Malik?" murmured Leonardo, buttoning his shirt.

"Hungover," said Desmond, touching Malik's shoulder and going to the couch to retrieve his clothing.

"And Altaïr?" Leonardo pushed his shirt-sleeves over his elbows.

"Kitchen," said Malik. "I heard him go into the kitchen."

Leonardo nodded. "Okay. Can I get you anything, Malik?"

"No, thank you." Malik picked up his shirt and self-consciously put it on.

With a gentle smile, Leonardo padded into the kitchen and frowned upon seeing Altaïr despondently slumped over the table, his head rested on his arms, staring at the refrigerator. A heavy sigh shook his shoulders, and his elbow nudged a glass a few millimeters across the table. The ice inside it clinked softly.

"Altaïr?" Leonardo touched his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"It's nothing," said Altaïr, his voice muffled into his sweatshirt. Leonardo reached to pull Altaïr's hood back but found his wrist in the mechanic's grasp before he could manage it. "_No_." Altaïr's voice was firm and final and Leonardo sighed, pulling his arm free.

"I... what has happened this morning, _amico mio_?" Leonardo asked, pulling up a chair to sit at Altaïr's side.

Altaïr grunted. "Mal's hungover. We both feel guilty about last night. End of story." He stood and went to the refrigerator to fill his water glass from the dispenser in the door.

Leonardo sighed. "If you insist," he said softly. "But I am here if you wish to talk to someone."

"I'm _fine_, Leo." Altaïr drained the glass entirely in one long pull and refilled it again.

"_Va bene_." Leonardo shuffled a placemat around on the table with his fingertips, watching Altaïr. "Forgive me, however: I must ask..."

Altaïr turned on him and cocked his head to the side, his golden eyes flashing oddly in the yellow light of the kitchen. He leaned back against the counter and nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Ask."

"You clearly have an _attraction_," Leonardo prefaced, and Altaïr cringed. "And so you make something of it on occasion-"

"_Two_ occasions. Two," Altaïr lied. His voice broke slightly and he coughed and took another drink of water.

"And this _clearly_ upsets Malik." Leonardo sighed. "It has an adverse effect on you as well, I think, my friend."

A growl rumbled in Altaïr's throat. "Don't talk to me, Leo," he said. His mouth was dry, his shoulders tense, as he tried to imagine what Leonardo was saying.

He had come this far without giving up and the thought of abandoning hope now made his chest ache.

"_Beh_. I will be quiet if it bothers you so." Leonardo stood and straightened his khaki slacks, then looked up at Altaïr with gentle blue eyes. "However, please know how transparent you are, my friend."


	42. La Vendetta degli Amanti XLII

The car ride home seemed to take forever.

Altaïr had taken the driver's seat in his Camaro; Malik sat beside him with a black cadet cap from the trunk pulled low over his eyes. They passed the time in silence, neither speaking, the only sound the purring of the Chevy's engine.

As they took the stairs to the apartment, Malik cleared his throat and Altaïr looked over his shoulder.

"Altaïr, I apologize," he said softly, his eyes shaded by the brim of the hat. He brushed past Altaïr, leaving him confused on the steps, and went to unlock the door.

"I..." Altaïr frowned, hurrying to Malik's side. "I'm sorry, too," he said quickly, then instantly regretted it, wondering for what _exactly_ he had apologized.

Malik nodded, opening the door and pulling his key from the lock. "Very well." He set his keys on the table inside the door and went to his bed, where he sat and pulled his shoes off, then hung his hat on the bedpost and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair.

Altaïr swallowed dryly, watching him. His legs twitched as if to carry him to Malik's bed, but the weight in his chest dragged him into his own, where he merely continued to study the other man.

"I believe there is little to be said beyond that," said Malik, "and I am very tired." There was a moment's silence, in which he started to unbutton his shirt, and then stopped quite suddenly, shifting uncomfortably.

"I'll go," said Altaïr quietly. "I have work anyway. I just need a shower first." He stood and gathered his clothing. "Can I get you a glass of water?"

"No, thank you." Malik lay back on the bed in his slacks and the previous day's shirt, pulling a pillow over his head to block out the stray light in the room.

Altaïr nodded and went into the bathroom. He undressed quickly and got in the shower.

The showerhead spat cold water at him and he felt his chest tense; a shiver ran down his spine and he stuck his hand under the stream as the water warmed.

Altaïr stepped under the spray and closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of the water running over his shoulders. He turned the head to the third setting from the left which he'd found felt like fingers combing through his short brown hair. He closed his eyes and a gentle sigh bled from his lips.

The warmth of the water had started to settle into his shoulders and he could feel the knots in his muscles beginning to work out. The abrasions on his knees stung; he looked down at the one he'd gotten on the table and winced. It was fairly deep, a bit of a gouge. He pressed two fingers against it and hissed sharply through his teeth; a trickle of blood rolled down his shin and mixed with the water as it ran into the drain.

His cheeks flushed and he smiled against his shoulder, sliding his hand up his thigh. His fingertips grazed several thin scars- crescent-shaped, arranged in sets of four, subtle as long as he did not tan- and he shivered at the feeling of smooth, raised skin under his fingers.

_Two occasions_. It had been such a lie. Little wonder that Leonardo hadn't believed him. They were both shy now, timid and uncomfortable due to the intervening year- the fire between them had dwindled to glowing embers, but the brands it had left on both of them stood out starkly.

Though he had missed Malik's hands, his mouth, his body, he had missed waking up with him far more. To fall asleep pillowed on his chest had felt breathtakingly _right_; to know that Malik felt regret and remorse for their actions made his stomach turn.

He washed quickly, attempting to push Malik from his mind, and got out of the shower to find that he had left his towel elsewhere. He swore under his breath and opened the door to pad into the bedroom, dripping.

Malik was asleep, or at least had not moved. The pillow was still covering his head. Altaïr picked up his towel from the end of his bed and dried, then pulled on a pair of briefs and turned to see Malik watching him discreetly from beneath the pillow.

"You forgot your towel," Malik observed, holding the pillowcase up and out of his eyes.

"I- yeah." Altaïr fidgeted with the terry cloth absently.

"_If you're going to survive out there, you've really got to know where your towel is_." Malik gave Altaïr half a smile and, weakly, Altaïr returned it.


	43. La Vendetta degli Amanti XLIII

"You look distraught."

Altaïr sighed, looking over the hood of a Taurus. Maria had her hand on the mirror, her head slightly tilted. He cranked the lug wrench and grunted with effort, loosening the nut. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, pulling the wrench off and manually finishing his task. He pulled the heavy Goodyear tire from the wheel and bounced it once on the concrete floor.

"I think you do." Maria crossed to the other side of the car, crouching beside him. She wore men's khakis and the same thick black work shirt that Altaïr wore. "Is it a girl?"

Altaïr scowled at her over his shoulder, now taking the back tire off. "_No_, although there's one getting on my nerves right now."

Maria stood and leaned against the back door. "Well... if you want someone to talk to, I'd love to take you to lunch." They were quiet for a moment; Altaïr looked at her for a split second too long and had to look away.

"I'm okay," he said gruffly. "_Thanks_."

"It's your choice," Maria said, turning away but tossing a smile over her shoulder as she left.


	44. La Vendetta degli Amanti XLIV

The drainpipe on the old hotel building led to a rickety fire escape. From the fire escape one could scrabble for purchase on the window ledges and pull up onto the roof.

From the roof, one could see for several city blocks down the busy state highway with its wildly-varied speed limit.

Altaïr had stopped at the newsstand down the street from the hotel to buy a pack of cigarettes- it was a bad habit and an old habit, one that he had kicked some time before, but it was a comfort.

He jumped at the sound of footfalls on the rooftop, his heartbeat quickening, his breath shortening. He pulled out his headphones and looked over his shoulder, then frowned upon seeing Maria approaching him, pulling a Subway sack from the messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

"How'd you get up here?"

"The same way you did, obviously... _oh_, wipe that look off your face." Maria sat beside Altaïr, pulling a footlong sandwich from the bag and setting it in his lap. "Here... thank you for lunch the other day." She took out her own sandwich and unwrapped it.

Altaïr stared at the sandwich, and then looked at the girl beside him, bemused. "Thanks," he said.

"Hush, you." Maria smiled and took a bite of her sandwich, then set it back down on the wrapper. "You've got a light, don't you?" she asked, taking a pack of clove cigarettes from her satchel.

"_Er_..." Altaïr chuckled. "Yeah," he said after a moment, pulling the Bic lighter from his jacket pocket. He lit her cigarette and took a long pull on his own.

Maria smiled. "Thanks." She exhaled smoke and looked up at the clouds.

"So... those are illegal now," said Altaïr, hunger getting the best of him. He peeled the paper away from his sandwich, holding his cigarette between his lips, and observed the sandwich's contents before nodding his approval.

"What of it?" Maria held her cigarette between slim fingers as she wasted no time in polishing off half of her own turkey-swiss footlong. "You can order them off the internet," she added, with her mouth full, and then giggled softly in embarrassment.

"_Ah_." Altaïr smiled politely. "So... you some kind of beatnik or something? Why do you smoke those?"

Maria shook her head. "No... maybe I'll show you at some point."

Altaïr frowned again, but brushed off the comment and went back to his sandwich. He pulled a Go Fast! from his jacket pocket, opened it, and took a long drink.

"Did you grow up here?" asked Maria after a moment's comfortable silence.

Altaïr finished his cigarette and ground it out on the concrete rooftop. "Yeah... I moved here when I was six to live with my grandfather."

"That's _sweet_," said Maria.

Altaïr almost choked on his energy drink. "_No_, it's not," he laughed. "Anything but. He was... _ha_. Overbearing. We moved out the day I turned eighteen."

"Who is _we_?" asked Maria, idly flicking ash from the end of her cigarette.

"_Oh_... sorry. Me and Mal... and... and Kadar." Altaïr felt his cheeks get hot. "Mal's brother."

Maria nodded. "But... I thought this _Mal_ was your roommate... are you related in some way?" She picked up the soda can and took a sip from it.

"No." Altaïr chuckled. "Not at all... _well_. Maybe distantly." He grinned. "Nah, Malik and Kadar moved in with me when Mal and I were sixteen. They had trouble at home and we... _I_... helped them out."

"Ah." Maria took another pull on her cigarette, the smoke curling around her fingers. "How did you meet?"

"Giving me the third degree here, aren't you?" Altaïr asked. "So, not a _beatnik_, maybe a spy?"

"I'd guess you can't figure out where the camera's hidden," Maria said, smiling brightly.

There was a pause, and Altaïr _laughed_, shaking his head. It felt good to laugh. "I knew you thought he was... what was it- _gorgeous_? I just didn't realize how interested you were in him."

Maria rolled her eyes. "Al... it's not him," she said gently. "You don't talk. Everyone else has just _scads_ to say and you... you're always quiet. You've got Ryan and his parties and Jason _whinging_ about his girlfriend-"

"And me." Altaïr chuckled, taking another drink.

"And you," Maria agreed.

Altaïr shook his head and sighed softly. "It's nothing _spectacular_," he said. "Mal and I met in high school. We went to Centennial together... the _alternative_ high school. I was a bit of a JD, and... it was right after 9/11, and Mal had trouble with some kids at his previous school because he's Syrian and _clearly_ a terrorist." Altaïr's eyes narrowed in a bitter frown.

"Not terribly _fair_, is it?" Maria punctuated her sentiment by tapping her cigarette out and flicking it off the edge of the roof. She gave him a sympathetic smile and touched his shoulder.

"Of course it isn't." Altaïr drank deeply from the can of Go Fast! and set it back down heavily on the rooftop. He smiled at Maria.

She was quite pretty in the sun; there was an odd quirk to her smile that intrigued him. She brushed a short strand of dark hair from her eyes, grinning as he looked her over. They both laughed softly, and Altaïr got to his feet, rewrapping the rest of his sandwich and shoving it in his pocket. "I should go," he said.

"I suppose I should too." Maria smiled and took the hand that Altaïr offered her, the left, and looked at his fingers before meeting his eyes. She held his hand for a moment, then squeezed it and let go.

Altaïr smiled and turned, heading toward the fire escape.

"_Wait_... Al... have you a moment more?" Maria asked, and when he turned toward her, she was _there_, right in front of him.

"_Uh_!" Altaïr's eyebrows lifted. He took her shoulders in his hands, laughing nervously. "_Jeez_, don't do that to me. Yeah, I guess I do."

"Would you like to know why I smoke clove cigarettes?" Maria smiled, breathlessly.

Altaïr's brow creased and he chuckled perplexedly, looking into her dark eyes. "_Um_... sure?"

Maria took Altaïr's cheeks in her hands and leaned up, pressing their lips together. He started to pull away, but the warmth of her body and the gentleness of her hands drew him back in. Soft, slim fingers stroked the back of his neck and her other hand held his shoulder gently.

Her lips tasted sweet and spicy, and he couldn't help but smile against them.

She pulled back, touching his cheek, and then gently punched his shoulder. "I'll see you later."


	45. La Vendetta degli Amanti XLV

The synthesized ringing of Malik's phone cut through the silence in the apartment. The vibration resonated on the maple nightstand and Malik groaned, pawing at the device, attempting to get a grasp on it.

The cell phone vibrated its way off of the table and landed with a thud on the floor.

Malik spat a curse in Arabic and picked up the phone. He glared at the caller ID and pressed the "answer" button. "_Okay_, I am awake now," he growled. "Is this important?"

"_Sorry_," said Leonardo through the telephone. "I guess you are not feeling great."

"I am trying not to hate you," said Malik patiently. "What do you want?"

Leonardo sighed. "I was going to ask if you would like to study with me tomorrow night. I- _hang on_." There was a soft shuffling sound, and Leonardo's voice carried through the phone. "_Honey_, use a _glass_- I... _oh_. Well, I _guess_ I will buy some more, then."

Malik grimaced, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder and scratching his nose.

"_Sorry_, honey," said Leonardo. "Ezio has once again depleted the orange juice supply-"

"_Leonardo_, is this important?" asked Malik again.

Leonardo mewled softly. "_Mi dispiace_. Would you like to meet tomorrow? I am afraid I will be... _distracted_ if I do not have someone to keep me on task..." There was an odd tone in his voice, a mixture of embarrassment and lasciviousness. "And there is the _final_ on Thursday."

Sighing, Malik sat up. He felt less queasy than he had before, given a decent amount of rest. "_Okay_. I will come over." He yawned and grunted. "I am... going to go find some coffee, Leonardo."

"Okay. _Grazie mille_," said Leonardo, chipper as always. "I hope you feel better, _amico mio_."

Malik merely grunted his thanks and hung up, then pocketed his phone. He stood and stumbled a step or two, then caught himself on the bedpost. "_Ugh_."

His mouth tasted awful, but the thought of toothpaste made him shudder. He went to the tiny kitchen and started a pot of dark roast coffee, then leaned against the counter.

He couldn't help but feel embarrassed at how he had treated Altaïr. He had gone too far.

Since the _incident_, Altaïr had cared for him. He had gone to pains to make Malik's life as convenient and comfortable as possible, and he had done very well. He had taken everything into consideration and he had been _eager_ to do it.

The pain that Malik had seen in his eyes that morning lingered still in his mind.

He looked at the clock on the face of his cell phone. It was seven o'clock and Altaïr was due home at five.

An odd jumble of thoughts landed, tangled, in Malik's brain and slowly unraveled; a strange fear settled into him that Altaïr had taken him too seriously and was _gone_.

His fear was shattered and his concentration moved to annoyance when his phone rang again, juddering around on the linoleum countertop. He looked at the caller ID and sighed in relief, answering the call. "_Altaïr_, I-"

"Hey, Mal. I'm at Wally World," said Altaïr, softly so as not to aggravate Malik's headache. "Do you want anything?"

Malik squinted, holding the phone against his ear with his shoulder as he took his coffee mug down from its hook and poured his coffee. "I... we are out of garbage bags."

"I know," said Altaïr. "Got them already. I want to know if _you_ want anything."

A soft frown creased Malik's brow. "Well, I... cannot think of anything," he said. "No, I have everything I need."

Altaïr sighed in exasperation. "Alright, you don't get it. That's okay. I'll see you soon."

"_Okay_," said Malik. "Altaïr-"

There was a soft click as Altaïr hung up, and Malik groaned, setting his phone down on the counter.

He took his coffee to the table in the tiny living area and sat, breathing the steam, then closed his eyes and let out a pained sigh. He had wondered, on occasion, if Altaïr's attraction to him had waned over the intervening year. Try as he might, he could not force his own attraction to fade.

He had withdrawn into the darkness inside himself after Kadar's pathetic excuse for a memorial service. The mosque had taken the body so that no autopsy would be performed, and when the service was given, Malik had told Altaïr in no uncertain terms that he was unwelcome.

When Malik became strong enough to be left on his own, he wanted nothing more. They moved into a less expensive apartment and Altaïr took a job at the body shop, offered him by an old high school friend. He reworked Malik's car and organized the kitchen for his benefit; he bought various useful things and harassed the staff at various kitchen and bath stores when they tried to upsell him to _better_ models of items that had been made infinitely less convenient for one-handed use.

Altaïr had been particularly proud of the automatic toothpaste dispenser he'd found, and Malik felt a bit of remorse for not thanking him because it had been very useful- most everything he had bought had been, save for a set of salt and pepper grinders that broke practically upon being taken out of the box.

Try as he might, Malik could not shake his affection and attraction toward Altaïr. It felt, on occasion, like Stockholm Syndrome- but he knew better. He had felt the same _before_ the incident. On occasion, Altaïr would sleep through Malik's alarm, and Malik would watch him for a few spare moments before going about his day.

It always hurt to have to leave.

It hurt more to bicker, which they had done quite fiercely after the incident, usually about stupid things, trifling irresponsible things that Altaïr did that were _vastly_ outweighed by his acceptance of responsibility. Malik had been quick to jump on him for these things, and he regretted it now.

Moments of peace had been increasingly less rare over the course of a year, except for the fact that Altaïr chronically forgot to take the garbage out, but that was life, and had always been the case.

Malik sighed, slowly sipping his coffee at the small card table. The door unlocked and opened, and Altaïr entered, carrying a few plastic shopping bags. He stopped at the tiny fridge to put a few energy drinks in it, and then went to the kitchen to put away the groceries.

"I brought you something," Altaïr said softly as he entered the living room. "I don't know if you want to eat anything right now or not but there's a bag of shelled pistachios in the kitchen. Thought you might... you know." He shuffled his foot awkwardly on the tiled floor. "I know you like them."

"Thank you." Malik clutched his coffee on the table.

Altaïr shrugged. "No problem." He smiled weakly, feeling guilty at the memory of kissing Maria on the roof- and guiltier still that he had enjoyed the kiss. "You probably don't want to go out tonight, huh?"

Malik grunted in the negative. "I have an... _amount_... of studying to do... and in any case, I do not wish to do any more irresponsible things."

"_Yeah_." Altaïr rested a hand on the table. "I figured. Do you want me to get your books for you?"

There was a pause, in which Malik studied Altaïr's face, and then looked away. "Yes, please. Thank you."

Altaïr nodded and retrieved Malik's school bag from the bedroom. He set it down carefully beside him. "Well... I don't want to distract you," he said, putting an awkward friendly hand on Malik's shoulder. "I'll head out. You can call me if you need anything."

"Thank you," said Malik again.

Altaïr smiled slightly and left the apartment, trying to decide who to call for dinner company.

After a moment's waffling, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called Maria.


	46. La Vendetta degli Amanti XLVI

Altaïr arrived at Old Chicago to find Maria already there. She was dressed in men's jeans and a baggy T-shirt, and his first thought was _oh good, she doesn't think this is a date_.

He sat across the table from her and ordered a Sunshine Wheat.

"Thank you for inviting me out," she said, sipping from a bottle of 1554. "I was glad to speak to you this afternoon."

"No problem. I asked Mal to come with me but he was too busy studying." Altaïr leaned on his elbows, sighing.

"You said something about his brother. I was curious-"

"_No_, I don't want to talk about Kadar," said Altaïr quickly. He paled slightly and shook his head. "I'm sorry. He passed away."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Maria gently.

Altaïr took his beer from the waiter and leaned back in his chair, unfolding his menu. "It was really... awful," he said weakly.

Maria frowned and touched Altaïr's hand gently. "I'm sorry... do you mind me asking how long it's-"

"A year. Little over." Altaïr took a long drink of his beer, then looked at the label and sighed. "Bad accident." He looked down at the table, clenching the bottle in a white-knuckled fist.

"Do be careful with that," said Maria, carefully pulling the bottle from Altaïr's grasp. "I'm sorry to have upset you... perhaps you could tell me more about Mal." She smiled softly. "You're _terribly_ interesting when you talk about him."

Altaïr took his beer bottle back, laughing quietly, nervously. "Well... he doesn't like when I call him Mal, I don't think." He sipped his Sunshine Wheat. "What do you want to know about him?"

"Anything." Maria waved the waiter over and ordered a very large pizza, then turned her attention back to Altaïr. "Anything you want to tell me," she said eagerly.

"Um..." Altaïr shook his head. "He and I have known each other for about... nine years, I guess... I... I don't know, Maria," he laughed.

Maria watched him in a way that made him terribly nervous. She sipped her beer and flicked a strand of hair from her eyes. "You live together... don't you have any funny stories about him?"

"Well... not _really_," Altaïr lied. "He's not really the _funny_ type. I mean... we used to race, I guess. Parkour, you know?" He picked up a round coaster and rolled it on edge on the table. "He was faster than me." He chuckled. "Then this happened." He held up his left hand and flexed his fingers, clearly displaying his lack of ring finger. "After that he was _much_ faster."

"Do you not race any longer?" Maria swirled the rest of her beer around in the bottle, watching Altaïr intently with grey eyes.

Altaïr laughed perplexedly. "How would we? He's- _oh_. You only saw him in the car, huh?"

Maria frowned. "I suppose. Why?"

"He's... he lost his left arm in the, ah... _accident_." A guilty frown crossed Altaïr's face as he watched Maria stammer, searching for a response. He sighed and finished his beer in two swallows, then waved the waiter over to order another. "There isn't really anything to say," he said gently, watching Maria continue to struggle for words.

"_Oh_," said Maria finally, resting her chin in her hand, curling her fingers over her mouth. "I just... it's hard to believe I didn't notice."

The waiter carried their pizza over on a tray and set it down at the table; a second waiter behind him brought Altaïr's beer. Maria ordered a water, avoiding Altaïr's eyes.

"It's... it's okay, I think he'd rather you didn't," said Altaïr. "He's... it's a rough subject for him... I mean, obviously." He took a long drink and pulled a slice of pizza free, then set it on a plate. He slid the plate across the tabletop to Maria and smiled.

"Thank you." Maria smiled weakly. "The... the accident... it must have been an _awful_ one."

Altaïr paled slightly. "It was... it was _bad_." He shook his head, taking another drink and gritting his teeth. "I was driving."


	47. La Vendetta degli Amanti XLVII

Several beers had gone by, and Altaïr was having trouble deciding what to say.

Maria, who was relatively sober after a beer and two shots of whiskey, sipped her water complacently. "_Okay_," she said. "I have an idea. Shall we play a game? We'll trade off asking questions of each other." She held her hand out to take the check from the waiter, and took it despite Altaïr's protests.

"Alright," said Altaïr peevishly. "Me first. Where'd you get the money? Seems to me a couple of days ago you were begging, and now you're buying lunch _and_ dinner?"

"Good question," Maria said. "Simple answer. I no longer have rent to pay." She smiled back at Altaïr's perplexed glare. "I've moved in with my aunt, who had been helping me; now I only have to keep up with the dishes and the laundry and I've got the run of the downstairs and can spend money on things like _food_, which is quite novel."

Altaïr rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. "Okay. So-"

Maria clicked her tongue, tucking her credit card into the bill fold and setting it on the edge of the table for the waiter. "_My_ turn." She smiled impishly. "Before me, who was the last person you kissed?"

Altaïr paled, his eyes flickering strangely yellow. Maria squinted at him to try to discern the cause, but their normal tawny color had returned by the time she could look closer.

"You don't know him," Altaïr said hurriedly, and then shook his head. "_Her_," he corrected, far too late.

"_Ah_!" Maria smiled. "Well, go on then, ask me one..."

Grunting his displeasure, Altaïr picked up his water glass and drank. "_Fine_. Why do you want to know so much about me?"

"Because you're fascinating, and I do like that you can talk to me." Maria grinned. "Do you like women as well?"

Altaïr groaned. "I thought I did, but you're making me reconsider." He looked at her, tilting his head slightly, his eyes again looking brighter than normal. She gave him an odd feeling, one of strange comfort and friendliness, which surprised him.

Maria looked up at the lamp above the table and noted that it held a very white, almost blue, bulb. She frowned and turned her attention back to Altaïr. "I'm sorry," she said, regaining her composure. "Was it a good kiss? With the... mysterious stranger, that is."

"No, I haven't asked you your question yet." Altaïr swirled the straw around in his water glass. "Where'd you learn parkour?"

"My ex-boyfriend," she said. "_Huge_ emphasis on the _ex_ bit. Anyway, he taught me parkour and free-running and we would do it together." She took a long drink of water. "Alright, then, was it a good kiss?"

Altaïr's cheeks reddened. "The last one less so... um... but the ones before that were pretty good." He smiled weakly and looked at the table.

"So there were a _number_ of them, then." Maria smiled. "Interesting. I'll stop prying about that, now."

"How come you were so... _emphatic_ about the _ex_ thing?" Altaïr shuffled his foot under the table nervously.

"He was a bit of a loony. I'm just glad that's over and done with. Bit of a religious fanatic, kind of... ended up with this weird cult-leader... mentality." Maria held up a hand and shook her head. "I'm sorry. Anyway... I don't really want-"

"That's fine," Altaïr interrupted. "You don't have to talk about him."

Maria laughed. "No, that's not it at all. I was going to say I don't really want to stay here all night. What are you doing tonight?"

"Er..." Altaïr pulled his phone from his pocket and frowned at it. It was only ten o'clock, and there was little reason to disrupt Malik's studies. "I guess... nothing really. Why?"

"Would you like to join me at my aunt's? As I said, there's the downstairs." She paused, studying Altaïr's expression. "I've got a Wii," she offered after a moment.

Altaïr shuffled his foot again, pocketing his phone. He nodded. "I'd love to."


	48. La Vendetta degli Amanti XLVIII

"I don't want to be Peach anymore." Altaïr set the Wiimote down on the tabletop. "Four times now and I haven't placed above eighth."

"Maybe you ought to try going the right way around the track," Maria offered.

Altaïr sighed and took a shot of whiskey. "You know, maybe you ought to... stop... winning. I mean, you're handicapping me here." He shuddered. "Anyway, don't you have anything better than Jim Beam?"

"No," said Maria cheerfully. "Are you finished? Are you giving up?"

Altaïr nodded. "Think so. I'm a little smashed," he admitted, lying back on the couch and scratching the stubble on his chin.

"Alright." Maria sat on the floor, turning off the television and tipping back a shot as well. She paused. "Thank you for tonight. This was... _is_... lovely."

"Mm." Altaïr draped his arm over her shoulder. His wrist brushed the curve of her breast and he jumped, startled.

Maria laughed wryly. "You don't have to worry," she said. "I don't mind."

Altaïr smiled and pulled her closer. She was warm and strong, and she smelled astonishingly good; he realized with a start that she wore cologne rather than perfume.

"Al?" Maria slid her hand up his arm, resting her head on his thick bicep.

"_Hm_?" Altaïr nuzzled into her hair.

Maria giggled softly, closing her eyes and relishing the heat of his breath ruffling her short dark hair. "I... well, _do_ you like women as well?"

A gentle bite at the crook of Altaïr's elbow sent a shiver down his spine that settled into a slight warm tension in his abdomen. "_Uh_... well, yeah," he said. "It's been a while since I've... done anything about it." He felt his cheeks warm and blamed the whiskey. "Maybe... maybe about nine years."

He wasn't sure why he'd said it. Maria frowned, turning to face him. "That's an awfully long time." She tilted her head, meeting his eyes.

"_Mind you_, it hasn't been nine years since I've had sex," Altaïr said quickly. "I was just... kind of distracted for a while. Busy. I've been... _waiting_ for someone, I guess." He swallowed. "But it kind of looks like that's... not going to come through. Shit happens, right?" He gave her a smile, a convincing fake one, looking into her eyes and touching her chin. After a moment's eye contact, he looked downward in embarrassment and then back up. "Anyway. Would you want to kiss me again?"

Laughing softly, Maria leaned in to kiss him. She pressed soft lips against his, closing her eyes.

She tasted like whiskey, which was the obvious choice, but also strangely of strawberries. Altaïr chuckled, shifting closer and letting his eyes slide closed, mouthing her lower lip gently.

Maria smiled, gently flicking her tongue at Altaïr's lips, tilting her head. She cupped the back of his neck with a gentle hand.

Altaïr pulled back, his chest shuddering slightly. He met Maria's smile with one of his own.

"Thank you," said Maria softly, getting to her feet and heading out of the room.

"B-but... but _wait_..." Altaïr rolled off of the couch, somehow getting his feet under him. "Why are you leaving? I don't want you to leave."

"Perhaps you should come with me, then," said Maria, smiling only very briefly over her shoulder before entering her bedroom.

Altaïr's eyebrows lifted. He paused momentarily, then scrambled to follow her, cursing the alcohol impeding the movement of his legs.


	49. La Vendetta degli Amanti XLIX

"Did you somehow _not realize_ what you were doing?" asked Maria shrewdly, nonetheless stroking Altaïr's short hair with gentle fingertips.

Altaïr sat at the edge of the bed, naked, sweat-slick, and paranoid. He held his head, his left hand on his cheekbone, fingers curled over his eyes. "I'm _fucking sorry_," he growled, his voice sounding broken.

"_Shh_, pet." Maria kissed his shoulderblade, then went to her dresser and put on a thin blue T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts.

"I don't think you understand," said Altaïr, swallowing thickly.

Maria touched his hair and pulled his head closer, gently holding it against her stomach. "Love, just... wait a moment. I'll be back." She padded out of the room, and Altaïr watched her through his fingers, then swore under his breath and stared at his feet on the thick beige carpet.

She returned a few moments later with a few ibuprofen and a glass of ice water, which she shoved into Altaïr's hand. "Al?"

"_Yes_?" Altaïr took the pills and downed them with a long drink of water.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Maria crouched at his feet and touched his knee, sighing when he did not answer. "I ask because, well... otherwise I'd be worried it's my fault you're upset... I didn't think I was that bad." She laughed, somewhat nervously. "Or... or is it because we didn't use protection, or..."

Altaïr shook his head. "You were _fine_. You were better than fine. And... and _fuck_, I... forgot about that. No. That's not it." He sipped from the tall glass, closing his eyes. A trickle of water rolled down from the corner of his lips and he wiped it away impatiently. "I... I just didn't realize how it would make me feel." He coughed against his wrist and cursed the stinging of his sinuses. "Feel like _shit_ and I-"

"Don't know why?" Maria gently kissed Altaïr's knee and rested her cheek there, idly ruffling the hair on his leg with her fingers.

"I know _exactly_ why." He swallowed. "It's... _last night_, I did something that I think I regret. I didn't regret it until this morning when he- ah, _god damn it_." Altaïr squeezed his eyes shut and groaned under his breath.

"It's alright, love. We can move past the _gay_ part of it. I understand that already." Maria touched his foot and looked up at him sympathetically. "What's troubling you?"

Grunting his displeasure, Altaïr lay back on the bed. He pulled a corner of the comforter over his lap. "I just feel like this might have been a mistake."

Maria shrugged and sat beside him on the rumpled duvet. "I understand. I don't want to make anything of it, love. It was _fun_, yeah?" She smiled softly. "Is it the _mysterious stranger_? Did something happen between you?"

"I..." Altaïr stared at the ceiling. "I woke up this morning in his arms- I, well, actually, that's... not really one hundred percent accurate." He paused, his cheeks reddening. "I woke up holding him. We were naked and he was... hungover and angry. But I was... _happy_. Well, before he woke up, anyway." He paused, looking up at Maria with red eyes. "I just don't know what I can say to him."

Maria lifted her eyebrows. "Al, is this a _boyfriend_?"

"_No_." Altaïr rubbed his face with sweaty hands. "I... it was never like that." He paused and covered his eyes. "_It's Mal_," he said softly, barely audibly.

A silence fell in the room and Maria took Altaïr's hand in both of her own. She kissed his fingers and he jerked his hand away, gritting his teeth.

"Of course," said Maria quietly. "I should have realized." She touched his chest, her eyes sad, sympathetic.

"Realized _what_, exactly?" Altaïr growled, sitting up again and groaning at the sudden dizzy rush that came over him.

Maria smiled gently, reassuringly. "Al, you never told me you were in love with him."

Altaïr rounded on her, confused at first and then angry, all broad shoulders and aggressive posturing. His eyes flashed bright again, yellow in the darkness of the room. Maria gasped in surprise, then looked away, hoping he wouldn't hurt her, and Altaïr stood and pulled on his boxers, then followed them hurriedly with his jeans.

Maria tried to touch his arm, stammering in confusion. "But, no, you're too drunk-"

"I'll show myself out." He grabbed his shirt and sweatshirt from the floor and opened the bedroom door amidst her protests. "See you tomorrow."


	50. La Vendetta degli Amanti L

Maria had been right. He was too drunk to drive.

After his third close call with a parked car, Altaïr pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store and rested his head against the window for a moment.

The streetlights burned dull yellow against the black-brown sky. It had started to rain and the windshield was covered in trickling spatters of water.

Altaïr turned off the Chevy's engine and got out of the car. He stood in the rain for a moment, closing his eyes and tilting his head upward until he lost his balance and had to catch himself on the side mirror. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, then sat on the hood of the car.

He flipped the phone open to find a text message; his stomach squirmed when he saw that it was one in the morning and that the text was from Malik.

"Where are you?" it read. Altaïr sighed, lying back on the rain-slick hood and staring up into the dark sky.

"On my way home," he replied and pocketed the phone.

He couldn't wait in the rain forever, though he continued to lie on the hood until his jeans were soaked, then stood up reluctantly and got into the driver's seat.

He smelled like sex and it made him cringe; he was certain that he would regret his actions even more in the morning. He turned the key in the ignition and turned up the volume on the CD player, then carefully made his way back to the apartment.

When he arrived, Malik was waiting for him with a warm towel.

Altaïr stared at it for a few seconds, bewildered. "What's this?"

"You are _wet_." Malik's nose crinkled and he frowned in displeasure, watching Altaïr's eyes. "You are also _drunk_."

Altaïr took the towel and dried his hair, covering his eyes so that he could look away from Malik. "I... maybe." He took an awkward step backward and leaned against the door. "Maybe," he repeated.

Malik scowled. "That is not up for debate. Here. Come with me." He took hold of Altaïr's arm and led him to his bed. "Sit."

Altaïr sat, looking up at Malik. He felt tears in his eyes and hurriedly hid his face in the towel.

"Why did you go and get drunk?" Malik sat on his own bed, only a few feet away.

"Didn't mean to." Altaïr sniffed and fumbled with the button of his jeans. "_God damn it_."

"Altaïr."

Altaïr looked up again.

"You are crying." Malik tilted his head. "What has happened?"

Shaking his head, Altaïr prodded at the towel with his forefinger. "I just... hit myself in the eye... _towels_, you know?"

Malik sighed. "Okay. I believe you... no, I do not." He stood and went to the table, from which he picked up a full basket of dryer-warm towels and held it on his hip. "In any case, I have done the laundry. Fold these and bag the garbage, please. You are drunk, so I will take it out." He put the basket down on Altaïr's bed, and was about to leave for the kitchen when he was grabbed tightly around the waist and had to catch himself on the bedpost. "Altaïr, _what_-"

"_Malik_, I'm sorry," said Altaïr against Malik's hipbone, his face buried in the other man's side as he bit back drunken tears. He was surprised to feel the warm weight of Malik's hand resting on his head.

"What are you sorry for this time, Altaïr?" Malik fingered the neck of Altaïr's T-shirt under his sweatshirt, then ruffled his fingers through short brown hair.

Altaïr paused, wading through his thoughts as Malik stroked the back of his neck. He could hardly remember for what he was sorry. "I'm sorry for this morning," he said decisively, then grunted. "No, I'm... I'm sorry for last night."

"I apologize as well for this morning." Malik wrested himself from Altaïr's grasp. "But as for last night... do not be sorry." He paused, taking Altaïr's chin in his hand and looking him in the eyes. "I am not."

Altaïr's eyes widened, then he ducked his head away and swore under his breath, mortified, pulling at his clothes as if he could not get enough air. "I am... _so sorry_," he said, wiping his face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

"There is more, then," said Malik, sitting down once again. "What do you wish to apologize for?"

Leaning on the bedpost, Altaïr nodded sadly. "I... there's this girl at my work. _Maria_." He closed his eyes and rubbed his face with a clumsy hand. "We were talking today, about you actually... and then, tonight, we went out for pizza and beer and... then we played _Mario Kart_ and... well, I didn't really think about it, but-"

"Altaïr, I do not want to hear this."

Altaïr looked up to see Malik on his feet, turned away from him. He was leaning on the end of his own bed, staring at the floor. Altaïr could just barely make out the whiteness of Malik's knuckles as he gripped the bedpost. "Mal..."

"I have a final to study for," said Malik tightly. "As such, goodnight, Altaïr. I trust that you will fold the laundry and take care of the garbage; I am sleeping on the couch." His shoulders twitched and the muscles of his forearm tensed as his hand tightened around the bedpost. He turned away and started out of the room.

"W-_wait_, Malik," said Altaïr, crawling awkwardly to the other edge of the bed. Everything that Maria had said was tumbling over him like rocks and he struggled to find words. "But I have to tell you... I-I'm-"

"_Sorry_," said Malik over his shoulder as he left the room. "I know. Goodnight, Altaïr."


	51. La Vendetta degli Amanti LI

The distinct, irritating buzz of Ezio's cell phone vibrating in the pocket of his jeans woke him at six in the morning.

He rolled over and rubbed his eyes, squinting against the light filtering through the curtains. He was alone, Leonardo's side of the bed empty. "_Hell_," he murmured, stumbling out of bed to grab his phone. He'd received a text message, from his father.

"Staff meeting canceled. Gave your shift to Daniel."

Ezio sat down at the end of the bed and yawned. He'd had an alarm set for six fifteen; there was hardly any reason to keep it on now. He turned it off and then replied, "okay... are you mad at me?"

He padded to the bathroom and when he returned to the bedroom, he'd gotten another text: "no."

"_Great_," he thought aloud. He put on his jeans and combed his tangled hair, and once again his phone did a vibratory dance on the dresser.

"Call me."

Ezio grunted his displeasure and took his phone to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of soy milk, given that there was no orange juice, and sat at the table. He pressed the call button and put the phone to his ear.

"Good morning," said Giovanni, his voice oddly tight.

"Dad." Ezio smiled slightly. "What's going on?"

Giovanni sighed. "I wanted to apologize. I should have asked you first about the shift. Daniel asked for more hours and I didn't think you would mind."

Ezio laughed. "It's _fine_," he said emphatically. "I'm just as glad to get the time off."

"I'm glad." Giovanni paused and Ezio was certain he'd taken a sip of coffee. "Your mother and sister will be going out tonight... I was wondering if you would like to come over."

"Sure," said Ezio. "Leo's studying with Mal tonight... I'm sure they'll want me out of their hair anyway." He swirled the soy milk in his glass and took a sip. There was a short pause, and Ezio spoke again. "Are you okay, dad?"

"I will be fine, thank you. I will see you tonight, yes? Around... eight thirty, perhaps?"

"Okay." Ezio yawned against his shoulder. "See you later." Giovanni hung up, and Ezio frowned in bewilderment, setting the phone down on the table. He downed the rest of the soy milk and went out to the living room. "Good morning, Leo."

Leonardo looked up from his book and inch-thick pile of index cards for just long enough to give Ezio a slight smile. "Good morning, honey," he said shortly.

Ezio sighed and sat down beside him on the couch. "I've got the day off," he offered. "Do you want to have breakfast somewhere?"

Shuffling through his index cards, Leonardo shook his head. "No, thank you." He picked up his pencil and scratched something out, muttering a string of obscenities that Ezio hardly understood.

"_Whoa_. Leo, how long have you been up?" Ezio touched Leonardo's jaw. He had not shaved; blond wiry stubble scraped Ezio's fingertips.

"Only an hour," said Leonardo dismissively. "Honey, do you not have anything to do today? Work, something like that?"

Ezio scowled. "I just told you I have the day off... you weren't listening, were you?" He sighed and rested his elbows on his knees.

"I am _busy_, honey... _mi dispiace_... I am trying to do five things at once." Leonardo pulled his book closer and bent over it, dragging his finger along a line of text.

"W-_well_... fine, then." Ezio stood. "I'm going to go out. See you later."

"Okay. I love you, honey."

Ezio sighed and went to the bedroom, where he quickly changed into shorts and a light T-shirt. He pulled his thick, dark hair into a ponytail and put on his socks and shoes.

He headed out through the living room, but was stopped as he opened the door by Leonardo's strong arms wrapping around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He looked over his shoulder with dark eyebrows lifted in surprise, then smiled slightly.

Leonardo smiled at him, tilting his head playfully. "Do not _tell_ me you thought you would get away without a kiss."


	52. La Vendetta degli Amanti LII

Malik wasn't really sure what time it was. He was awake at the kitchen table, staring at a stack of books that motivated him very little, and his third cup of coffee sat half-drunk in front of him.

Altaïr had left early without so much as a word, and Malik had faked sleep, his head pillowed awkwardly on his pile of books, though the coffee cup, still steaming slightly in the cool air of the kitchen, had given the lie to this display.

Reclining in the stiff wooden chair, Malik scratched his chin and yawned. His phone chirped its morning alarm, piercing the silence in the kitchen, and he frowned, grabbing it and turning it off quickly.

He was exhausted and distracted, and though he had slept out the previous day, staying up the whole night had left him almost delirious.

Very little of his reading had stuck with him, and when he flipped the topmost book open to where it was marked, he realized that he had aimlessly stumbled through twenty-three pages. Try as he might he could not recall a single topic of discussion from the book, and if he thought hard, he seemed to recall that the word _and_ had been used several times.

He shut the book despairingly and picked up his cell phone to send a text to Altaïr, and then thought better of it and called him instead.

A woman's recorded voice ordered him to enjoy the music while his party was reached, and he frowned as Garth Brooks told him a story he'd heard a thousand times before.

"_Well, I guess I was wrong, I just don't belong, but then, I've been there before_... _everything's alright, I'll just say goodnight, and I'll show myself to the door_."

Malik sighed, resting his chin atop the stack of books. He heard the click of the call being picked up, the voicemail message, recorded in Altaïr's car with the faint sounds of the engine audible in the background.

"_Hey, yeah, this is Al. I can't pick up right now. If you'll leave a message I'll call you back. _Hasta."

The robot told him to stay on the line to leave a voicemail. He debated for a moment, took a drink of coffee, and waited out the message until there was a beep.

"Altaïr, you are not answering your cell phone," he said, then frowned at his statement of the obvious. "I need to speak with you. Please call me back as soon as possible." He paused, then added softly, "please." He cleared his throat. "Thank you. I will wait for your call."

He hung up and settled back in the chair, holding his cell phone, staring dully at the screen.

He passed some time in silence, waiting for the call he wasn't sure would arrive, then after an hour spent trying to refocus his attention on the books, made another pot of coffee and called again.


	53. La Vendetta degli Amanti LIII

Altaïr's phone rang in his pocket as he walked along the edge of a stone church wall.

"_Lights go out, and I can't be saved, tides that I tried to swim against brought me down upon my knees, oh I beg, I beg and plead_..."

It could be no one but Malik. He had never changed Malik's ringtone; it was still the same as it had been for almost two years. He sighed and pulled the phone from his pocket to watch Malik's name scroll across the front screen of his phone.

He had called earlier and Altaïr had not wanted to drop to the street to take the call; now he was walking on the wall and it was tempting to sit, to answer.

He didn't know why, but he hit the "ignore" button on the side of the phone. It fell silent. He walked up to the cross atop the building, then slung a leg over it and sat on one of the metal arms.

Holding the phone in his hand, he flipped it open once the call had ended. He noted that he had a voicemail and called his inbox to listen to the message.

"_Altaïr, you are not answering your cell phone. I need to speak with you. Please call me back as soon as possible... please. Thank you. I will wait for your call_."

Malik's voice, quiet and pained, jerked at his heart, at his stomach. He looked down past his feet to the soft grass twenty five feet below, then up to the sky, blue and devoid of clouds. It was a beautiful day; the grass was still wet with the previous night's rain but the sidewalks and streets had dried.

He deleted the message and closed his phone just as a second came in. He scowled, then sighed and checked it.

"_Altaïr, I am worried about you_." He sounded tired and worn. "_Please reply to this message. I need to speak with you. Call back soon, please_... _I_- _fuck_." Altaïr could hear Malik clearing his throat, the soft clank of the glass coffee carafe being set down on the stove; he bit his lip as he heard Malik sniff, then pause to regain his voice. "_Altaïr, call me back_."

He swallowed hard, deleting the message because he couldn't stand the sound of Malik's voice, then wrote him a text message: "I'm fine. Can't talk right now." He paused, reading the message on the screen.

He wondered if Maria had been wrong. He felt mostly annoyance at the thought of speaking with Malik; punctuating that irritation was a slight pain in his stomach, as if it were being grabbed. He had never thought of the possibility of being in love, least of all with his best friend, and it seemed completely illogical.

As he sent the text message, he got off of the cross and sat behind the short concrete wall that held it. He'd never even been on a _date_ with Malik. They had gone out to dinner a few times, sometimes alone and sometimes with Kadar, and gone back to their apartment afterward; they had lived a bit like a couple, he supposed, but he wasn't sure it should be taken that way.

His phone buzzed in his hand and the guitar strum played to signal receipt of a text message. He flipped it open and read it. "You are a terrible liar."

He pocketed his phone and climbed down the face of the church to head to work.


	54. La Vendetta degli Amanti LIV

After a sprint across downtown rooftops, Ezio found himself at the bank.

He wasn't sure how he'd gotten there, or why he seemed to have been drawn to his place of employment. He frowned, catching his breath, looking up to the fourth-story windows. His father would be in his office; he pondered climbing the window ledges to see him.

Chewing his lip, he focused his attention on his father's window. Inside the office, through the glass, he could see a faint blue shape past the outline of a large straight-backed office chair; a smile curved the corners of his lips as he squinted to look closer. The glass was rain-streaked from the previous night and was in dire need of cleaning.

He could see something else in the window, just a sliver of light, but told himself his mind was playing tricks on him. A sudden movement and that sliver became slightly broader in the window, a red glow at the very edge of the glass that then shifted out of sight.

He lifted his eyebrows. That was not the usual order of things. He scrambled up the outside of the bank building but the second silhouette was gone by the time he reached his father's window, leaving only an annoyed-looking Giovanni, turned away from his desk and staring at his feet.

Ezio rapped on the window, gripping the ledge with his other hand. Giovanni looked up, alarmed, and then scowled at his son. "Lunch?" Ezio mouthed.

Giovanni sighed in exasperation, leaning back in his leather office chair. He steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the armrests, then nodded and watched Ezio as he began his descent.

Shortly afterward the door of Giovanni's office creaked open.

"Need to oil those hinges, dad," said Ezio, entering the spacious office.

"Yes, yes. All in good time. Just like the _windows_. Your hands must be filthy," said Giovanni, standing and picking up his Armani suit jacket. He put it on and pulled his sunglasses from the pocket. "Where do you want to have lunch?"


	55. La Vendetta degli Amanti LV

Giovanni leaned on the thin bar at the restaurant, looking out the plate glass window at the pedestrians wandering along the sidewalk, the few cars trundling along the side street, and the myriad police cars parked next door at the station. He stirred his rapidly-cooling soup with a black plastic spoon and frowned at the air conditioner above his head.

"So... _dad_." Ezio took a bite of ciabatta bread. "Who was in your office earlier?" he asked, trying for a casual tone but failing miserably; the mild quaver in his voice gave away his worry.

Wrapping a hand around the paper soda cup, Giovanni shook his head. "Don't know what you mean," he said, then took a long drink of his iced tea.

"I was watching you." Ezio paused. "Sorry," he added quickly. "I just-"

"There was no one there," said Giovanni.

Ezio scowled. "Just before I got to your window. There was _someone_. I can tell when you're lying to me."

Giovanni flushed slightly, and Ezio wasn't sure if it was in irritation or embarrassment at having been caught. "Don't mind him," he said shortly. "He was there to speak to me on business. Rest assured that he is taken care of. A minor inconvenience, if you will."

"_Red_, dad." Ezio rested his feet on a thick metal pipe near the floor, shifting uncomfortably on the black leather-upholstered stool. "That's not _minor_."

Giovanni lowered his sunglasses, meeting his son's eyes. "My son... if you are ever going to get anywhere in your life, you must learn to deal with inconveniences." He sighed and pulled the spoon from his soup and rested it on a napkin, then covered the soup with a black lid and took another sip of iced tea. He stirred it with his straw.

Ezio opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted before he could make a sound.

"You have to understand: in business, there will _always_ be someone around to be a pain in your neck." Giovanni smiled, though his eyes looked tired as he pushed his sunglasses up to cover them again. He put his arm around his son and squeezed him against his side. "In any case, Ezio, while I appreciate your concern, there is little to worry about. I have to head back to work; I have an appointment today. Thank you for your company... I'll see you tonight."

"But dad, I-"

"Ezio." Giovanni lifted his eyebrows. "You are forgetting that I see them, too. Not as well as you, certainly... but I'm not stupid _or_ blind." He paused. "Someday, when you have no one at your window... take a look at the people who come into the bank- I give you permission. I promise you, many of them will turn up _interesting_ colors and it means damned little." A wry laugh painted a smile on Giovanni's face. "In any case, I can think of someone whom you distrust who has nonetheless been nothing but loyal to me."

"I... I _guess_," Ezio said resignedly.

Giovanni nodded, then stood and buttoned his jacket. He headed for the door, but stopped halfway there and looked over his shoulder affectionately. "If you want to bother someone, I'm sure your mother would love to see you."

Ezio rolled his eyes. "I love you too, dad."


	56. La Vendetta degli Amanti LVI

Malik sighed, wet and frustrated, and took a seat on his bed to dry off from a long shower.

He picked up his cell phone and flipped it open with a well-practiced thumb, then sighed in disgust and closed it upon seeing two missed calls from numbers he didn't recognize, both 800 numbers, both likely to be from someone named Faye telling him he'd won two tickets for a cruise if only he'd go to a forty-hour time share meeting. He paid the calls no attention and set to clothing himself.

It was eight o'clock and the sun was teetering on the horizon by the time he was dressed and headed out the door with his black messenger bag slung over his shoulder and car keys in his hand.

From the landing he scanned the parking lot for Altaïr's white Camaro with its distinctive red spoiler. A heavy tree limb had fallen on the original spoiler and Altaïr had replaced it with a red one, which he had intended to have painted; soon after, however, they had moved into their current apartment and money had quickly become too tight.

Malik descended the stairs after seeing no sign of Altaïr's car. As he was crossing a lane, a minivan with an irritated-looking young man driving came around the corner at thirty miles an hour too fast for a parking lot and nearly took him out.

He jumped out of the way in time for the minivan to slow down- but not stop- and then pass him without so much as an acknowledgement from the driver. He scowled and watched the vehicle cruise around the parking lot and then finally turn sharply into a spot.

Shaking his head in annoyance, he went to his station wagon and got in. He rolled the window down and backed out of his spot, then headed out of the lot warily.

The sunset bled pink and orange into the blue sky, lighting the few silver clouds over the purple and blue of the foothills. It was almost unreal. The yellow of the sun had just begun to sink past the rolling shapes of the mountains, sliding slowly downward as though melting.

The windshield of Malik's station wagon was streaked with dust and the previous night's precipitation. He tried to run the windshield wipers but the washer fluid was low. He grunted in displeasure and squinted to see through the grime.

He took a turn onto the nearby main drag from the lot and followed it north, then took a right and stopped at a grocery store for dinner.

The clouds had dissipated further by the time he was back in the car. Malik turned west out of the parking lot onto a mostly-empty street, squinting into the sunset to watch the gold Corvette in front of him.

His phone rang in the passenger's seat and he looked toward it for a moment, only to see another unfamiliar number scrolling across the display. When he looked up, the Corvette's brake lights were glowing red.

He tried to stop, but the brakes on the station wagon were no match for the Corvette's; the station wagon skidded to a stop, but not before the bumper collided with the rear of the Chevrolet and both cars jerked and shuddered.

Malik's heart thumped hard in his chest. He bit down on his lip as he watched the tinted back window of the Chevy. His hand shook as he palmed the gear shift; the thought of swerving into the next lane and leadfooting it to Leonardo's apartment briefly occurred to him but instead, he turned on his hazards, then shifted deliberately into reverse. He backed up a few feet and parked by the curb.

The door of the Corvette opened as the hazards switched on, and a tall, thin man stepped out of the car. He wore a brown hooded sweatshirt with a diagonal zipper across the front; the hood rested at the back of his neck. His auburn hair was held back in a tight ponytail at the back of his neck with a thin leather cord.

Malik opened the door, cursing the sweat rolling down his ribcage. He started to get out of the car and hissed a few choice expletives when he realized his seatbelt was still restraining him. He unfastened it and got out of the car. "Why did you _stop_!" he called out, his voice panicked.

"Didn't you see the fox?" asked the other man, stopping between the two cars and looking toward the parking lot.

Malik frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly. "_No_, I did not," he said. "Are you alright?"

The stranger looked at him through lightly-tinted polarized sunglasses. "Yes, but what _were_ you looking at?"

Malik shook his head. "I apologize," he said shakily. He grabbed his keys, pocketed them, and shut the door of the station wagon. "I could not see, and my brakes..."

The stranger gritted his teeth and took a breath. "Do you have insurance?" His voice was smooth but firm.

Malik's eyes widened. He felt his heart rate quicken slightly. "Y-yes, I do have insurance, but... it is not _good_ insurance." He paused to look toward the back of the Corvette, but the movement of the stranger's arm drew his eyes.

"Of _course_ it's not," growled the stranger under his breath, crouching to look at the damage to his car. He looked down the empty street cautiously.

"Can we please- I have a friend who can..." Malik trailed off, frowning as the tall man took off his sunglasses and looked at the bumper of the station wagon.

"And if you would _clean your windshield_..." It wasn't actually directed to Malik, but he cringed anyway at the muttered words. The stranger's attention was again focused on the back of his own car until he frowned and looked over his shoulder. "You're missing an arm," he observed.

Malik's mouth fell open and he sputtered for a moment in incoherent irritation. "What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

"_Just_ what I need," the stranger breathed. He took out his wallet and shuffled through a stack of cards. He pulled out a business card and held it out to Malik. It contained little information: a telephone number with a 303 area code and a name, Paolo Veriano. "Take this. Do you have a business card or something?"

Malik took the card, shaking his head slowly, dark brows knitted and nerves shot. "No... I am a _student_... please-"

"_Here_." The tall man handed Malik another card and a pen. "Write down your information on this."

Looking at the two cards and pen in his hand, Malik nearly dropped them in frustration and embarrassment. He put the cards down on the hood of his station wagon and leaned down to write his name and phone number on one of them. The pen slid in his sweaty hand and the card tried to skitter away until an impatient hand held it down for him as he wrote.

"Thank you," said the tall man, taking the card and pen back and pocketing them once Malik had finished. "Expect a call tomorrow." He turned on his heel.

"I... I have a final tomorrow," said Malik.

Throwing an irritable glance over his shoulder, the stranger went to the door of his car. He opened the door and Malik saw him pull his Blackberry out of his pocket as he got in the driver's seat. "Expect two, then, if I don't reach you the first time," he called, then shut the door.

Malik watched the Corvette depart. There was little point in hanging around and he hardly wanted the police to show up. He opened the door of the station wagon and got in, then took a look at his cell phone. The missed call showed on the screen, as did two texts.

"Are you still coming over?" read the first one, from Leonardo.

Malik sighed. "Yes," he replied, "but I had car trouble." He pressed "send."

The second message read simply "sorry I'm a dick." It was from Altaïr, and made Malik's stomach twinge uncomfortably.

"We will talk tomorrow," Malik replied. The thought of speaking to Altaïr calmed him slightly, but he didn't trust himself not to lash out at his friend for the events that had just transpired.

He took a deep breath and started the car again.


	57. La Vendetta degli Amanti LVII

Ezio pulled into the driveway of his parents' house, parked his Dodge, and set the emergency brake. Getting out of the car, he deposited his wool jacket in the passenger's seat and picked up a reusable grocery sack, then walked up the cobblestone path, unlocked and opened the door, and took his shoes and socks off in the entryway.

Hearing his father's voice in the kitchen, he peered around the corner. Giovanni was seated at the kitchen island on a tall chair with his back to the door. A glass of white wine sat at his elbow as he held his cell phone to his ear.

"You said it didn't even scratch. You'll get a _new_ car in a couple of months anyway," Giovanni said, hardly containing laughter. He paused, curling his toes around the metal rung at the bottom of his chair. "Were you _really_ all that attached to the license plate?" He chuckled, his face lighting up with an affectionate smile, and slid his fingertips along the black granite countertop, then up the stem of his wine glass. He picked up the glass elegantly and took a sip. "Okay. I will be in touch, _amico mio_. Thank you."

Ezio padded into the kitchen and put a hand on his father's shoulder, setting the bag down on the counter.

Giovanni didn't even twitch. Instead he looked over his shoulder and smiled up at his son. "_Ben arrivato_, Ezio," he said cheerfully.

"Hi, dad," said Ezio. He pulled out the chair to Giovanni's right and turned it to face away the counter, then sat, resting his arms on the high back. "Who was that?"

Chuckling softly, Giovanni finished his glass of wine. "Our friend Gilberto has gotten himself in a bit of a... _fender bender_," he said, getting up from his chair slowly and making his way to the cabinetry along the wall.

"_Your_ friend," Ezio reminded him. For as long as he could remember, the man had made him uncomfortable. He could hardly decide why because he had so many reasons.

"_Ezio_," said Giovanni gently, refilling his glass and pouring wine for his son as well. "We spoke of this earlier. Gilberto has been a close friend of this family for many years." He handed Ezio's glass to him and sat back down. "I don't know why you distrust him so vehemently."

Pulling a box of strawberries from the grocery sack, Ezio shook his head. He sipped from his glass. "You _know_ I don't trust him because I can't read him." He went to the sink and ran water into the plastic box, gently shaking the strawberries in it to rinse them.

"Mm." Giovanni nodded, watching his son with interest. He swirled the wine in his glass and closed his eyes, breathing over it momentarily, taking in the aroma. "Well, we will have to agree to disagree for now."

Ezio looked sidelong at his father. His cheeks were rosy, flushed by the wine. His brown hair was tied back with a charcoal grey ribbon; the collar of his silver shirt was arranged neatly at the neckline of his dark red sweater, and the sleeves were pushed up over his elbows, casually rumpled. He looked positively _calm_, which was a relief given the morning's events. Ezio returned to his seat and set the strawberries down on the counter.

"How is Leonardo?" asked Giovanni. Ezio tilted his head slightly to the side, his brows furrowing, a slight smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

"Fine," he said. "Well... _mostly_. His nerves are frazzled right now. He's got a final tomorrow and he was _glad_ when I told him I was leaving." Ezio frowned, taking an almost obscenely large gulp of wine.

Giovanni frowned. "I'm sorry," he said, sounding quite sincere. He touched his son's shoulder affectionately. "I'm sure he'll be better by the end of finals. Everyone's on edge right now." He took a sip and leaned his arm on the back of his chair.

"You seem relaxed." Ezio drained his glass and refilled it.

"I've just had an old friend over," Giovanni said. He paused to finish his glass of wine. Ezio wasn't entirely sure if the flush on his father's cheeks was entirely his own or in part the reflected color of his sweater and the walls around them.

Ezio grunted, understanding. "And the wine," he said. "That would be from him as well."

"_Mm_." Giovanni nodded, picking up a strawberry and pulling the top from it. He set the green stem on a napkin and took a bite of the berry. "He just got back from Arizona."

"I see," said Ezio. "Where's Federico and Petruccio?"

Giovanni chuckled. "Where _are_ they," he corrected with a grin. "Federico's working a double shift and Petruccio's having dinner at Mario's house." He paused. "And your mother and Claudia are at some kind of... _party_." His eyebrows bobbed and Ezio frowned.

"W-_what_, like a Tupperware party or something? Or-"

"Something like that," said Giovanni with his mouth full of strawberry.

Ezio frowned and let the subject drop. He drank deeply of his wine and shifted on the wooden seat of the chair.

There was a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the sound of two legs of Giovanni's chair scooting a short distance along the hardwood floor. The other two rested on the runner carpet. He patted Ezio on the shoulder and went to the freezer. "You still like ice cream?" he asked, resting his hand on a black paper carton.

"Sure," said Ezio. A mischievous grin flitted across his face. "Were you _lonely_, dad?"

"Of course not," said Giovanni unconvincingly. He got a pair of spoons from the drawer and sat, opening the carton. He smiled. "Let's not talk about that."

"Alright," said Ezio.

Giovanni took a bite of ice cream and leaned his elbows on the counter. He nudged Ezio's upper arm with a gentle hand. "Ezio, _figlio mio_... I want to apologize to you."

Ezio blinked at him for a moment, bewildered. He picked up the second spoon and twirled it between his thumb and middle finger, then took a drink of wine. "Why?"

"For..." Giovanni chuckled and looked away from Ezio's inquisitive tawny eyes. "For being a _hypocrite_," he said wryly, the ghost of a grin showing on his face as he looked down at the counter.

Furrowing his brow, Ezio put the spoon down. "Why would you be a hypocrite?"

With an impatient shake of his head, Giovanni took another bite of ice cream. "For giving you a hard time," he said.

"I don't follow." Ezio finished his wine and pushed the glass away just slightly with his fingertips.

Giovanni chuckled. "You know that my friends and I used to race, yes? Like you and Federico?"

Ezio nodded. "I remember you telling me how La Volpe would always win."

"Yes... _well_. I did win once," said Giovanni, with just the slightest hint of indignity in his voice. He laughed again, a soft chuckle under his breath that shook his shoulders.

"_Okay_," Ezio said, frowning impatiently. He slid the ice cream closer and picked up his spoon to take a bite.

Giovanni rolled his eyes, barely concealing an embarrassed smile. He slid his shin between the legs of the chair such that his instep rested on the rung at the bottom. "Gilberto and I would race one-on-one- but as he continually outclassed me, he decided that a _forfeit_ was in order for the waste of his time. _Five times_ he beat me before I finally won." There was more than a little pride in his smile as he recalled it. "A bit of _cunning_ on my part. I knew that he would follow me, and so chose my route carefully. It was a nasty trick, but there was a bit of creaky scaffolding... a well-weighted jump and it crumbled under my feet and left him on the roof opposite." A faraway look drifted momentarily over his handsome face, as if he were recalling the event step for step in his mind's eye.

Ezio lifted the carton with his left hand and dug in it with his spoon. "So... _what_, did he have to buy you a beer or something?"

Curling the fingers of his left hand over the corner of his mouth, Giovanni smirked in amusement. He reached for another strawberry. "Yeah," he said. "_Yeah_." He chuckled and stripped the stem off.

Frowning, Ezio slid his ankle up the leg of the chair to scratch an itch. "Okay. I don't get it, but _okay_." He paused, bewildered. "Speaking of which, I'm thinking of racing with my friend Altaïr some time," he said.

Giovanni looked at him askance, a quirky smile resting at the corners of his mouth as he lifted an eyebrow. "What does Leonardo think of this?"

Ezio squinted at his father. He was becoming more and more confusing by the second. "He's fine with it; don't think he likes to watch, though," he said cautiously.

"_Ah_..." Giovanni looked at the strawberry held between his fingers and bit into it. "He doesn't _mind_, then?" he asked.

"No..." Ezio looked into the carton of ice cream as if searching for deeper meaning in the flecks of vanilla bean suspended in it. "_Wait_, why would Leo mind?" He looked up at his father's awkward half-smile and his eyes went wide.

Giovanni was hardly able to contain a mortified, nervous laugh. "It's _dangerous_!" he said quickly.

"Oh, _dad_!" Ezio groaned, dropping his spoon into the carton and cupping his face in his hands. "_Seriously_?"

Giovanni looked at his son sheepishly. "I told you I was a hypocrite," he said, taking the ice cream carton back and removing Ezio's spoon from it, then digging his own into what was left of the quart.

Ezio sighed into his palms. He rested his forearms on the counter and stared out the window above the sink, collecting himself momentarily. With the slightest smirk he turned to his father. "So... did _mom_ mind?"

The very tips of Giovanni's ears reddened further. "Er... _no_," he said, busying himself with reading the label of the wine bottle.

"Oh." Ezio's nose crinkled as he grimaced. "_I see_."

Giovanni almost _giggled_, pouring another half-glass of wine each for himself and Ezio.

Ezio coughed into his hand. "_So_," he said, desperate to change the subject, "where's Federico working tonight?"

"7-11," said Giovanni forlornly. He picked up his glass and rested it against his lip momentarily, then lowered it. "At least it keeps him out of trouble."

"That's true." Ezio sipped from his own glass. "This is good wine," he conceded.

With a quiet laugh, Giovanni lifted his glass again, watching the pale yellow liquid shift slightly, glinting in the light from the directional lamps above. "Gilberto would never choose a mediocre wine." He paused. "Least of all for me," he said, almost to himself. He was Gilberto's financial advisor and trusted friend; they had known each other for over twenty years, since Giovanni had started college, and had remained close despite Gilberto's frequent absences.

Ezio nodded, looking down at the small shimmering shapes in the granite counter. He pulled a strawberry from the box and held it from tip to stem with his thumb and forefinger, running the tip of his tongue over his lower lip and biting down. He looked over to his father and shook his head. "You _are_ a hypocrite," he said, his tone only mildly accusatory.

"I said I was sorry," Giovanni replied. He met his son's eyes, the same honey color of his own but youthful, carrying little worry and weariness. "This is all I can give you. I was... _surprised_. I didn't realize how long you two had been... well, I've been distracted." He took a sip of his wine, closing his eyes for only a moment before returning his gaze to where it was, watching his son's eyes sincerely.

Sighing, Ezio took all but the top of the strawberry in his mouth and bit down, then set the greens down on a napkin. "Two years," he said after a moment, with a slight smile.

"That's a long time," said Giovanni. "And how are you two doing?"

"Fine, except for the occasional... _finals_." Ezio laughed a little.

Giovanni smiled. "And your mother and I are fine, except for the occasional _end of the fiscal year_," he offered.

Ezio returned the smile, the tension in his shoulders relaxing a bit. "I guess it kind of happens that way."

"Hey." Giovanni nudged his son. "Do you want to go play _Mario Kart_?"

"_Ha_..." Ezio grinned. "I don't like your idea of winner-takes-all," he said.

Once again turning red, Giovanni nearly choked on his wine. "I'm not-!"

"I get to be Yoshi," said Ezio, getting to his feet with the aid of the counter.

Once Giovanni had regained his voice, he coughed against his shoulder. "_I_ was going to be Yoshi." He sighed. "Well, then, I suppose I should be Luigi."


	58. La Vendetta degli Amanti LVIII

Leonardo had been too distracted by his studies to worry much about Malik's car trouble. That changed, however, when Malik knocked on the door of the apartment and Leonardo opened it to find him red-eyed and shaken, his lower lip bruised from biting and his hand curled into a tight fist.

"_Malik_, honey, _cosa è successo_?" He took him into his arms and was astonished when Malik clung to him momentarily.

"Leonardo, I..." He looked at his feet. "I rear-ended someone on my way here and he would not listen when I tried to sort it out," he said quickly, taking his messenger bag off and walking past Leonardo to set it on the couch. He was sweaty and tired, the right sleeve of his shirt pushed up past his elbow and rumpled at his bicep.

Shocked, Leonardo followed him and took his things to set them down. "_Oh_, Malik, I am so sorry... what _happened_?" He had never known his friend to be careless. "Have you been drinking?"

"_No_," growled Malik. He looked up into Leonardo's eyes, exhausted and shaken. "I have not slept since yesterday." Shuffling around the couch, he scratched the thick stubble on his jaw. "I have been too... _busy_."

Leonardo lifted his eyebrows. "Oh... _honey_." He wrapped his arms around him from behind and kissed the top of his head, then pulled away when Malik shrugged his arms off.

"Who gave you permission to call me this?" asked Malik irritably, unfastening the buckles on his messenger bag. He looked up to see Leonardo looking quite heartbroken. "I apologize. I am very tired."

"And _stressed_ as well, I think," said Leonardo, taking a seat beside Malik. "Honey, what happened? I have never known you to be so..." He trailed off, twirling a hand in midair and frowning.

Malik sighed and shook his head. "I do not think I wish to talk about it. I am okay." He pulled his laptop from the bag and opened it carefully. His vision blurred and he swore under his breath, earning him a sad sigh from Leonardo.

"You are _not_ okay, Malik," Leonardo said, touching his friend's knee. "Are you hurt from the... the _accident_?"

Malik's brow furrowed in a harsh frown. "It was hardly enough to be called an accident, Leonardo." He put his computer down on the couch and leaned his forearm on his knees. "I was not paying attention and it was my fault, though he did stop in the middle of the road." After a pause, he shook his head. "He gave me his business card and took my name and phone number. He says he will _call me_ tomorrow."

"_Ooh_." Leonardo winced visibly. He rested a hand on Malik's shoulder. "It could be worse," he said after a moment, optimistically. "You could have been hurt, _amico mio_. But you are alright physically, yes?"

"No," said Malik quietly. He closed his eyes and hung his head before he could see the pained look on Leonardo's face. "I am sick to my stomach from _eleven _cups of coffee. I have been unable to focus on my studies because my eyes sting from..." He swallowed dryly and stared at the thick dark hair on his arm. "From the light."

Leonardo's lips bowed in a pained frown. "_Oh_, Malik..." He wrapped his arm around Malik's shoulders and leaned down to look a bit closer at his face. "D-do you want to talk about it? Is it Altaïr?" he asked softly.

Malik bit down hard on his lower lip, which stung and aggravated the darkening bruise. "_No_," he growled, his hand curling in a tight fist, sharp fingernails digging into his palm. "I do not want to _talk_, Leonardo. I want to finish my studies and perhaps _sleep_, finally."

Grimacing, Leonardo squeezed Malik against his side and nodded. He got to his feet and went to the other couch to lean studiously over the table. "I am here," he said quietly, "if you need me."


	59. La Vendetta degli Amanti LIX

For the third time in two hours Altaïr found himself in the single employees-only restroom of the body shop. He was nearly finished with the double shift he'd taken but it had worn him out.

He leaned on the small sink, engine-oil-stained hands gripping the aged porcelain, and hung his head, staring into the drain.

It was ridiculous.

He had hardly planned to have a nervous breakdown at work but the aching in his chest had failed to subside and the stinging in his eyes had become tears more times than he could count. He hadn't allowed them to fall, but now they were trembling on his lower eyelids, tenuously clinging to his eyelashes. He wiped them away on his forearm.

Biting back the tears that remained to ache in his sinuses, he looked up into the mirror. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot; his lips were chapped, the lower one split in the middle and bleeding slightly. He touched at the thin red streak gingerly; a sliver of blood clung to the pad of his finger.

There was a harsh banging at the door and Altaïr gasped, startled. He looked over to the door to see nothing but door, and sighed, annoyed at his jumpiness. "Just a minute," he said, and frowned at the thick sound of his voice. He coughed into his hand.

"Al, it's Maria... are you alright?" The voice on the other side of the door was concerned and sympathetic.

Altaïr's stomach turned and he stared into the mirror. "Yeah, fine. Do you need the bathroom?" he asked gruffly, curling his fingers tightly around the edge of the sink.

There was a short silence. "_No_, Al." Altaïr heard a quiet thump and realized that Maria had leaned her forearm against the door. "Do you need to talk, love?"

He cringed at the word. Something inside him squirmed violently as if being jabbed with a hot poker. "If I did, I wouldn't want to talk to _you_," Altaïr growled. "If you don't need the bathroom, go away. And don't call me that."

Maria grunted in annoyance. "_Piss it_," she snapped. "Just go on and act infantile if that's what you want, then." She rattled the metal handle of the door and stomped off.

Altaïr overheard her telling someone "_she's powdering her nose_." He growled under his breath and lay his fingers over the knife in his pocket irritably, but he was glad for the distraction. He washed the oil from his hands and dried them on the thighs of his khaki pants, then exited the bathroom.

A wolf-whistle from Garrett across the shop sent a shudder of resentment through his shoulders. The knife felt suddenly very heavy against his thigh and he sighed through his teeth, reflecting that it better fit his idiom to be uncontrollably angry as opposed to inconsolably depressed.

His phone buzzed in his other pocket and played the familiar guitar strum. He sighed and flipped it open.

The text was from Maria, asking simply, "what's going on?"

"Nothing," he replied shortly, then pocketed the phone and approached Jason.

"What do you need me to do before closing, boss?" he asked, tilting his head to the side such that his neck cracked.

Jason winced. "Ah... I don't know, Al. Jack's got the oil change... go clean up the counter and take out the trash, I guess."

Altaïr frowned but turned and went to the counter. Maria was at the computer, typing away, once again on Facebook.

"What's going on, Al?" Maria asked again, watching him shuffle the various bits of paper around on the counter. "Please talk to me," she added when Altaïr ignored her completely.

Shaking his head, Altaïr picked up an empty water bottle and threw it into the recycling bin. "Blessed little," he said, then grimaced when she touched his arm. "Alright, _look_. You want to know more?"

"I'll listen," said Maria consolingly.

"Okay. How about the fact that Mal and I don't seem to be on speaking terms, you called me a woman, and I've been working a double shift at a job where I get next to no respect?" He laughed bitterly, picking up the small office trash can and dumping it out into a bag, then growling and shaking the bin when not everything slid out. "_Oh_, yeah, and there's the fact that this could have _all_ been avoided. That's only been weighing on my mind for a fucking _year_ now. Thanks for that little trip down memory lane."

Maria lifted her eyebrows. "Tell me how you_ really_ feel," she muttered. "Anyway, it's not as if you were acting like a man, going off to cry in the bathroom every half-hour because you can't deal with the consequences of your _actions_." She paused, shaking her head; her voice was getting louder as she continued and Altaïr tried to hush her, scowling. "You've got to admit that you fucked up and keep on as you are, because clearly if he's kept you around then he must have _some_ kind of feelings for you-"

"Who's _he_?" asked Garrett, tossing an old oil filter into the garbage bag Altaïr held.

Altaïr's eyes flickered yellow as he turned to say something suitably scathing to Garrett. He found himself at a loss as to what it should be, however, and Maria was already speaking by the time he had opened his mouth and closed it like a fish out of water.

"My ex-boyfriend. I'm only telling Al what my aunt said to me the other day."

There was a pause, in which the three of them looked at each other; Garrett nodded suspiciously and headed back into the bay, throwing a bewildered look over his shoulder at Altaïr.

"_Alright_," Altaïr said, tying the bag up. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to talk to you. Something _fucked up_ always happens every time I do." He shook his head and touched Maria's shoulder, which earned him a frown. "Keep trying for that counseling job, baby doll."


	60. La Vendetta degli Amanti LX

Ezio turned his key in the lock and opened the door of Leonardo's apartment. Leonardo looked up and smiled to him over the back of the couch, and Ezio was about to greet him when Leonardo held up both hands to shush him.

Frowning, Ezio closed the door quietly and took his shoes off. He went into the sitting room and followed Leonardo's gaze to the other couch.

Malik was leaning forward onto his books, his head pillowed on his arm, his neck at a slightly awkward angle. His shoulders rose and fell gently with his breath as he dozed in his ungainly position with a pencil nearly fallen from his fingers.

"I am not sure if it would be meaner to wake him or let him be," Leonardo reflected as Ezio sat beside him on the couch. He paused, then suddenly looked startled. "_Oh_! Oh, Ezio, I did not tell you... Malik was in a car accident on the way here."

Ezio's eyes widened momentarily. "Is he okay?" he asked.

Leonardo nodded. "I think so... he seemed shaken but uninjured." He frowned, looking at Malik for a moment, who stirred in his sleep and grunted, resettling his weight.

"I... _hm_." Ezio frowned, his brows knitting. "That's interesting. I was talking to dad... a friend of his got in an accident tonight."

"Which friend?" asked Leonardo, watching the pencil tip from Malik's hand and roll across the tabletop.

Ezio cringed. "Friend of his from college." He shook his head. "Goes by _La Volpe_ and-"

"_Ah_, yes!" Leonardo exclaimed, and Malik grunted in his sleep. His books slid an inch or so across the table and his arm followed. He squirmed and grunted, stirred awake, and Leonardo flushed slightly. "_Oh_... Malik, _mi dispiace_, I-"

"How long did I sleep?" asked Malik, blinking a few times and pushing himself up to sit. He yawned into his hand and squinted at the clock on the wall.

Leonardo shook his head. "I am not sure, honey... I was studying, and I looked over and you were asleep."

Malik scowled. "_Why_ did you let me sleep? Leonardo..." He sighed, rubbing his face. "What could have possessed you-"

"You needed the sleep, Malik," Leonardo said gently. "You were exhausted; you are _still_ exhausted, I think. Eleven cups of coffee do not make you less tired; they only make you more awake through the exhaustion."

Grunting in displeasure, Malik stood up. "They also instill in one a great need to urinate." He yawned again, then combed his fingers through his hair and headed to the bathroom.

Ezio frowned and watched him leave. "How do _you_ know La Volpe?" he asked.

"_Ah_..." Leonardo cringed. "He is just a friend. He frequents the club scene, and I, _well_. I used to as well, much more than I do now." He smiled, looking at the tabletop. "I have known him for a very long time."

"_Leo_," Ezio groaned, "you didn't, like... _do_ anything with him... right?"

Leonardo blinked at Ezio momentarily, then shook his head, chuckling. "_Ezio_, no, honey. He and I are of the same... disposition, if you will." He paused, watching Ezio's expression squirm and finally settle into a generically disturbed grimace. "_What_?"

Ezio grunted, crinkling his nose as if a there were a bad taste in his mouth. "Oh, nothing. Just some stuff my dad said... I'll spare you the details but now I'm _never_ going to get that image out of my head."

Lifting his eyebrows, Leonardo picked up a glass of water and sipped from it. "_Oh_, Ezio." He tried to contain an amused smile but it crawled onto his face anyway.

"Just don't." Ezio looked away from him, grumbling softly under his breath.

Malik returned to the sitting room, yawning. He packed up his books and laptop carefully.

"Are you leaving, honey?" asked Leonardo. "It is no problem if you are, of course..."

With a nod, Malik fastened the buckles on his messenger bag. "It occurred to me a moment ago that I have some repairs to do at the apartment." He pulled the strap over his head and adjusted it to sit on his shoulder. "I hope that I did not distract you too much."

"Of course not!" replied Leonardo, hurriedly getting to his feet to hug his friend.

Malik patted him on the back and nodded to Ezio, who smiled weakly at him. "It was good to see you, Ezio," he said. "Leonardo, thank you for your hospitality."

Leonardo smiled. "Any time, _amico mio_."

"Good night, then."

Malik let himself out and went to his car. He felt momentarily tense as he got into the driver's seat but it passed quickly.

The drive home was a straight shot, and mercifully short. He realized with a very pleasant jolt as he pulled into the parking lot that Altaïr's Camaro was parked right in front of the building. He found a spot beside it and thanked some deity or other, in which he did not believe, and headed up the stairs.

When he entered the apartment, he found Altaïr asleep, or perhaps passed out, on his bed. He still wore his khakis, but his black work shirt lay rumpled on the floor between their beds. Nestled inside it was Altaïr's cell phone.

Malik set his bag down and bit his lower lip. It still stung.

He stripped down to his boxer shorts and put on a T-shirt, then settled down into his bed and turned off the lamp on the bedside table.

The soft sounds of breathing in the darkened room should have annoyed Malik, but he took comfort in them as he watched Altaïr's silhouette shift slightly in the other bed, atop the covers. He closed his eyes, wrapping his arm tightly around his chest and imagining it was not his own until exhaustion and the soft comfort of his bed dragged him into much-needed sleep.


	61. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXI

Altaïr woke at nine in the morning to an odd tickling sensation somewhere near his instep. He jerked slightly but felt his feet restrained; grunting, he curled a hand over his face. "_What_..." When he looked toward the foot of the bed, he saw Malik seated there. His own feet rested in Malik's lap. "Mal... what's-"

"Nothing. You were having a nightmare," Malik said. His hand was curled gently around Altaïr's foot, his legs folded beneath him. He wore soft dark jeans and a dark red dress shirt and his packed school bag sat at his side, and he looked _decisive_, though Altaïr could not tell why.

"Mal..." Altaïr looked up into Malik's brown eyes, frowning sleepily. "Are you okay?"

With a slight laugh, Malik looked down at Altaïr's feet. He stroked one of his ankles gently. "Your telephone rang." A little wry smile crept over his face. "I hope you can pardon me. I answered it to take a message."

Altaïr pushed himself up on his elbows, squinting in bewilderment. "What..." He shook his head, barely stifling a yawn against his shoulder. "Who was it?"

"That was the _interesting_ part," said Malik. "It was Maria's aunt. I apologize; I did not get her name, given that she thought I was you, and would not let me correct her." He chuckled, his smile growing. "She seemed disinterested in _conversing_ with me and much more determined to put the fear of God into me. I think it might be the _accent_."

"But... but why'd _she_ call?" Altaïr sat up, pulling his feet from Malik's lap to fold his legs on the bed.

Malik scowled at him, almost playfully. "I am _getting_ to that, Altaïr. Why did you move?"

"Don't feel like I should take this lying down," Altaïr said. "Why did she-"

"_Apparently_," Malik said irritably, "Maria's aunt discovered a positive pregnancy test in the bathroom garbage can."

There was an odd, slightly sadistic half-smile on Malik's face as he spoke, but a strange flicker in his eyes that Altaïr couldn't grasp. "But I..." Altaïr's mouth was too dry to speak. He shook his head silently, his lips parted and brow knitted. "But _no_..."

"Maria's aunt wished to know if I- that is, by proxy, _you_- planned to take responsibility." Malik laughed softly. "However-"

"Why are you _laughing_?" Altaïr's voice cracked slightly. He stumbled out of the bed and turned, grasping the bedpost.

Malik laughed a bit harder. "Because it is _funny_!" He covered his eyes with his hand, then rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. "Altaïr, you are not this stupid normally. Unless Maria happens to live in a dimension in which time passes approximately _twenty-one times faster_ than in this one, it could not be your child." He paused, and a smirk collected at the corner of his mouth. "Unless, of course, there is something you are not telling me-"

"_No_!" Altaïr shook his head. "Of course not, I just-"

"Very good." Malik smiled, this time gently. "This is what Maria said. She said some other things as well."

Altaïr's eyes widened. "Y-you talked to Maria?" he stammered, sitting back down on the edge of the bed, deflated.

Nodding, Malik rested his hand at the small of Altaïr's back. "She interrupted her aunt mid-tirade," he said. "Of course, she still thought I was you and proceeded to tell me that the child was not mine. I said 'I would assume not,' and she suddenly seemed _thrilled_ to speak to me."

"She would be," groused Altaïr. "You're _bubbly_ today."

Malik chuckled. "I took one of your energy drinks. I did not think you would mind."

Altaïr tilted his head to the side, perplexed. "No... it's just... okay, whatever. That's weird."

"She says she has heard a lot about me. You speak of me often?" Malik curled his fingers into Altaïr's belt loop.

"Not often," said Altaïr, trying to stand and then scowling when Malik pulled him back down. "Don't you have to go to school or something?"

"Yes." Malik put his arm around Altaïr's shoulders, squeezed him against his side momentarily, then picked up his bag and stood. "I hope you have a good day, Altaïr. I will call you later." He turned on his heel and started for the door, shouldering his bag.

Altaïr frowned, bewildered, and scratched his chest. "Okay. Good luck on your final."

Malik smiled over his shoulder. "Thank you."


	62. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXII

Leonardo rushed into the lecture hall with thirty seconds to spare before the final. His blond hair was messy, hanging in his eyes, and his face was flushed. He smiled breathlessly and sat beside Malik.

"You look pleased," said Malik, balancing a pencil on the pads of his index and middle fingers.

Leonardo giggled softly. "You have _no_ idea," he said, digging in his bag until he found a comb and a hair elastic.

Chuckling, Malik set the pencil on his desk. "On the contrary, my friend. It is rather obvious." He watched Leonardo pull his hair back. "But where did you-"

"In the car... Ezio said I looked _stressed_ when he was dropping me off." Leonardo bit his lower lip.

Malik frowned, but couldn't contain the insistent laugh that followed. "Yes, but in the _parking lot_?"

Leonardo lifted his index finger to his lips. "_Shh_. No one saw us." He leaned over once again and grabbed a pencil from his bag.

Shaking his head in amusement, Malik twirled his own pencil between his fingers. It had been a while, but he recalled having had sex in far more public places than his own car. A smile twitched at the corners of his lips and he rested his elbow on the desk, enjoying the memories and the odd sort of relaxation that came with them.

The professor walked up the stairs to hand Leonardo his test, then turned on his heel and headed back down to the podium. He looked up at the clock. "You have two hours... starting now. If you have any questions, please direct them to my assistant."

Malik shifted in his seat, flipping back the cover of the test. He scanned the first page of questions, then the rest, and suddenly realized that he had worried too much over very little. For the most part, the questions were taken directly from their previous tests.

It almost felt too easy.

He filled in the bubbles on the Scantron sheet carefully, wishing that he had brought a clipboard as he watched the thin sheet skitter around on the desk under his hand. It was distracting enough to keep him from dwelling on thoughts of his previous escapades, though the memories lingered in the back of his mind, fixing a slight smile in place and preventing him from becoming too annoyed at the inconvenience.

The phone call had been enough to cement the decision he had already made. Maria had said little, but she had said enough, and Malik had experience with reading between the lines.

It had blown his mind when she apologized, as if they were _dating_. She had told him that if she had known about _the two of them_, she never would have made advances on Altaïr.

She had called him _Al_, of course.

It had always struck Malik as funny that Altaïr's name seemed such a trouble to everyone. Indeed, after his first three weeks at the shop, filled with confused and occasionally irate customers either mispronouncing his name or apparently taking it as an offense against their morals, Jason had ordered him a new nametag that shortened his name and made him seemingly infinitely more approachable.

Altaïr's name had been one of the first things to bring them together. It seemed a strange thing when he reflected upon it, but it had been important then.


	63. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXIII

"Hey! Hey, kid, come back!" The voice carried through the hall of the high school, forcing a dark blush into Malik's cheeks as he turned, clutching an armful of books and papers to his chest. He saw the young man waving at him and instinctively shifted his books onto his left arm, freeing his right, every muscle of his body tensed as if in preparation for a fight.

A hippie kid leaning against the lockers lifted her eyebrows, said "_whoa_," and slunk away hurriedly.

"Can I _help_ you?" asked Malik, his voice sharp, scathing.

"You, uh... you dropped this," said the young man, holding out a folder full of loose leaves of paper.

Malik frowned and looked through the stack of books in his arms, then blanched slightly and looked the other boy over appraisingly. He was slightly taller than Malik, with golden eyes and messy brown hair. The outline of a pack of cigarettes was barely visible in the pocket of his jeans. "Thank you," said Malik after a moment, taking the folder.

"Where are you headed in such a hurry?" asked the other boy as Malik turned and started down the hall.

"I am going to my locker," Malik replied shortly.

"Oh."

The footfalls continued behind Malik and he shot a glance over his shoulder. "Why are you following me?"

There was a pause. "I just... I saw those guys giving you shit earlier."

Malik sighed, stopping in front of his locker and kneeling to turn the dial of the combination lock. "So did I," he said.

"Look. I'm sorry they do that." The boy crouched beside Malik.

Grunting softly to himself, Malik shoved his Math book into his locker. "Is this the part where you tell me that I am _beautiful anyway_ and should ignore them?" he growled. "I have seen enough American movies to know that I do not want this."

"_What_?" The boy chuckled. "Look, I... I just wanted to help you out. I'm Altaïr."

Malik frowned at the floor, then looked up. "Altaïr?" The name was oddly comforting in its familiarity.

The corners of Altaïr's mouth lifted slightly, his lips parting in an odd nervous smile. "Yeah," he said. "I've seen you around. What's your name?"

Malik extended his hand and Altaïr shook it. "Malik," he said.

"Cool," said Altaïr. He stood and adjusted his jeans, then looked at his watch, a cheap sport model, scratched almost to illegibility on the face, that he had likely found rather than bought. "Well... I'm done for the day. Want to join me across the street?" he asked, tapping the outline in his pocket with his fingertips.

Malik frowned. "No, thank you."

"Suit yourself." Altaïr smiled. "I think we have a lot of classes together... if you want to hang out between, I'll be around... those guys that pick on you, they're the _little_ fish," he said with a laugh. "They don't bug me. They only bug you 'cause you're- well, they think you're an easy target."

Shutting the locker door with a slight bang, Malik scowled up at Altaïr. "This is very nice, but what is in it for _you_?" he asked.

Altaïr frowned. There was something in Malik's eyes that almost frightened him. He shifted his backpack on his shoulders. "A _friend_, I hoped," he said irritably but honestly. "All of mine graduated. Or went to juvie." He shuffled his foot on the linoleum floor and stuck his thumbs under the straps of his pack.

"I see." Malik folded his arms over his chest and looked Altaïr over again. He was skinny, but his muscles were well-toned; he wore tight blue jeans and a black shirt with a denim jacket over the top and well-worn Converse high-tops, fitting in effortlessly with the hall full of students.

It almost made Malik jealous. He looked down at his own clothes, a hunter green polo shirt and khaki pants with Dr. Martens Oxfords, and frowned, then looked back up to meet Altaïr's eyes. "Does... does your offer still stand?" he asked nervously.

Chuckling, Altaïr cuffed him on the shoulder. "Sure. Come with me."


	64. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXIV

Malik grinned to himself, checking his answers meticulously, dark eyes flickering from the Scantron sheet to the page and back again.

He remembered the first cigarette they'd shared; he didn't think he'd ever coughed so hard. Altaïr had laughed at him, but let him drink from his water bottle.

They had sat on the edge of the sidewalk across the street from the school for almost an hour with their feet in the gutter, smoking and talking, and Altaïr had given him a stick of gum to take the taste of stale smoke out of his mouth. He had felt strange as he walked home, oddly weakened, and he had, of course, blamed the cigarette.

Malik shifted his feet on the floor, looking at Leonardo, who looked perfectly content. He went over his answers one more time, then shouldered his bag and stood. He passed in front of Leonardo's desk but a sharp kick in the shin made him hiss in pain. He looked over to Leonardo, who only smiled up at him and mouthed "I will text you later."

"Okay," Malik mouthed, edging away from Leonardo with an awkward smile. He headed down the stairs and handed his test to the teacher's aide, then headed out of the lecture hall.

A smile had already worked its way to his lips, though his shin still stung. He went to his car and sat in the driver's seat, put his bag down, then fumbled his phone free from his pocket and opened a new text message.

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

He reread the text on the screen, then shook his head and deleted it. "Have dinner with me tonight," he tried, but that wouldn't work either. He chewed his bruised lower lip and nodded. The past week or so had been rough on their already-rocky relationship and he felt terribly guilty. There was only one thing to say.

"Forgive me."

He sent the message and was startled by how quickly the phone started to ring in his hand. He pressed the "answer" button and put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Mal, don't do anything stupid!" said Altaïr, his tone panicked.

Malik frowned, his brows knitting tightly. "_What_?"

"Don't do anything stupid," repeated the voice on the other end of the line. "_Please_, please, let's talk about this... come home and we'll-"

"_What_ are you going on about?" Malik snapped, holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he pulled the car door shut for privacy.

Altaïr paused, his heavy breathing the only sound for a moment, hissing in the speaker of Malik's phone. "Why did you send me that text?" he asked. His voice was tight, cracking slightly.

Malik blinked perplexedly. "Because I was an _asshole_ to you," he said, "and I would like you to forgive me."

There was another short silence.

"I think that I have given _you_ enough forgiveness," Malik urged, softly.

Altaïr sniffed. "Of _course_ I forgive you," he said thickly.

Malik smiled slightly. "Are you _crying_? What is going through that thick head of yours, Altaïr?"

"N-_nothing_. Forget it." There was another sniff, and Malik could hear Altaïr wiping his face. "What's going on with you?"

"I was going to ask you to have dinner with me tonight," said Malik gently. "I apologize for worrying you; I thought it necessary to seek forgiveness before-"

"_God_, you're an asshole," Altaïr said, his laughter choked. "Yeah. I'll have dinner with you."

With a quiet laugh, Malik leaned his head against the back of his seat. "I am glad to hear that. Please decide where you want to go, and I will see you after your shift."

Altaïr let out a short huff, something between laughter and a sigh. "Yeah. I'll think about it." He paused. "Hey, Ezio called me earlier. He wanted to know if we'd go over for a _Rock Band_ party at his parents' house tomorrow... I told him I wasn't sure... because you don't sing, you know?"

"Tell him that we would be pleased," Malik said. "I will see you tonight, Altaïr."

"Okay," Altaïr said, caught off-guard. "See you then."

Altaïr hung up and Malik closed his phone; as he did so, however, a strange feeling of dread came over him. He remembered that he was still waiting to hear from the owner of the gold Corvette.

He grit his teeth and set his phone down on the passenger's seat. He had slept well enough that he had been distracted from the impending doom that was Paolo Veriano's phone call.


	65. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXV

Altaïr leaned on the tall sign on the street corner, staring at the letters on it disinterestedly from above. ZZ Top played in his headphones as he watched the cars crawling through a maze of orange traffic cones; the drivers in many of them looked positively homicidal. He made sure to wave at them because the scowls that he received in return pleased him.

It was astonishingly hot; his thick steel-toed boots seemed to be cooking his feet and the heat radiated up from the asphalt not far from him. He leaned down to pick up his water bottle, then the base of the sign lost purchase on the ground and fell on top of him.

Scowling, he pushed the sign back up and shot a bird at the bicyclist who had laughed at him as he passed. He'd been outside for far too long.

He watched Maria's car drive into the small lot and park. She got out and waved to him, and he waved back awkwardly with his left hand, then watched her go inside the shop.

He couldn't help but wonder _exactly_ what she had said to Malik, and furthermore what her aunt had said. He hadn't met this aunt and frankly wondered how she had managed to get his phone number.

There was also the question of why Malik had seemed so pleased, but that could wait for later. It was confusing and thrilling enough to have woken up in the same bed with him, and to have Malik treat him with such affection had been completely bewildering, though enjoyable.

Fifty feet or so down the street was another young man holding a sign. He was dancing wildly to something playing in his headphones, and looked remarkably like Jim Carrey.

He wore a black fedora, a white shirt with a painting company's logo on it, high-water jeans, and nondescript black shoes; he should have worn a single glove as he moonwalked along the sidewalk, but he did not.

Altaïr watched the sign spinner dance, enjoying the show, then jumped, startled, as Ryan grabbed his own sign from him.

"Taking over. You're going to die of heat stroke out here," Ryan said. "Anyway, I want to watch him for a while, and Jason's got a project for you." He smiled and pointed to the sign spinner, and Altaïr nodded dazedly, then picked up his water bottle and headed into the building.

Maria was halfway under a Jeep, her thick boots and smudged khakis visible. Altaïr nudged her foot with his own. "Maria... _Maria_," he said insistently.

Sliding out from under the car just enough to look up at Altaïr, Maria frowned. "Yes, what is it?"

Altaïr crouched beside her, looking at her with gentle concern. "Are you sure you should be doing that?" he asked softly.

"Doing _what_, exactly? My job?" Maria laughed. "I may be a woman but I'm _not_ incompetent."

"No, no... not that at all. Maria, Mal told me about your conversation, and, well-"

Maria frowned, her brow creasing. "Oh... _Al_. I told him not to tell you." She shook her head. "It was a test from the dollar store," she said, as if she expected it to mean something to him. When no sudden look of comprehension filtered over Altaïr's face, she sighed and pushed herself out from under the car completely, then sat up and leaned against the fiberglass door. "I went to the clinic this morning after all of the _drama_ with my aunt, which I'm sure Mal told you about as well." She paused. "It was a false positive, Al."

"_Oh_..." Altaïr frowned. "Does that happen?"

Maria chuckled. "Well, I guess so." She smiled and lay back down on the floor of the bay. "Anyway, don't waste any time worrying about me, I'm just as glad. It would have belonged to my ex and... _well_. I don't need him in my life." She slid back under the car, leaving Altaïr perplexed and crouching at her side.

"Al! Got a Neon for you, needs an alternator put in." Jason approached him, wiping his hands on an orange rag. "You okay?"

"_Yeah_. Yeah, I'm fine." He smiled at Maria's knees, because he could see little else of her, and followed Jason to the blue Dodge.

Jason patted Altaïr on the back. "Alright. Hey man, you and Maria... you guys have been hanging out a lot. Are you guys, you know..." He made an obscene gesture coupled with a questioning sound, and Altaïr fought the urge to punch him.

"No. The answer is still _no_."


	66. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXVI

Every stray sound that cut through the silence in the apartment nearly put Malik on the ceiling. He had received a text message from Leonardo after the final regarding _Rock Band_ and one from Altaïr listing a few restaurant suggestions, but still no phone call.

There had been no visible damage to his car, and he seemed to recall that there had been little, if any, damage to the Corvette, but he wasn't sure he hadn't made that up afterward.

The more he thought about the accident, as it were, the more he worried that the Corvette's owner had gone to have the damage appraised or something equally expensive.

Finally, in the late afternoon, irritated and struggling with a stomach ache, he found the business card in his wallet and called the number on it.

The phone rang for what seemed an interminable amount of time. Malik was about to give up when there was a soft clicking sound and a short pause. Then, groggily, a voice on the other end of the line said "_hello_?"

Malik felt his stomach squirm. "Mr. Veriano?" His voice broke slightly and he frowned.

"What?" There was another pause. "Oh... sure. Who is this?"

"This is Malik... from last night." Malik's throat felt tight; he could feel his own heart beating heavily.

There were a few sparse sounds in the background, a couple of quiet grunts. "I'm sorry," said the other man after a moment. "I can't place you."

Malik cringed. "With the... one arm," he said feebly. "I apologize if I woke you."

"_Ah_... yeah. Alright. You did, but it's fine. Did you need something?" The man yawned, his voice becoming a little clearer.

Resting his head on the back of the couch, Malik sighed. "No... I called to ask if you need my insurance information. I have been awaiting your call and-"

"Oh, that." There was a chuckle from the other end of the phone, a soft breathy laugh that Malik felt more than heard. "Don't worry about that."

Malik frowned. "But your car-"

"Is undamaged. I'm sorry I overreacted." There was a pause, in which Malik heard water running. The man cleared his throat. "Don't worry, I don't want your information or anything."

"Oh... alright," said Malik, too bewildered to be relieved. "Thank you."

Another chuckle tore the silence. Malik almost felt the hot breath spilling over his neck. It was unnerving. "Don't mention it. I trust your car is alright?"

Malik tucked his feet under himself on the couch. "Yes, it is undamaged."

"Very good. I'm sorry to have worried you needlessly; honestly, I forgot. In any case, good afternoon to you."

Malik nodded uselessly. "Good afternoon, sir."

There was another click as the call ended. Malik put his phone down on the couch at his side and stared at it as if afraid it would bite.

"Well, that was... _anticlimactic_," he said to no one.


	67. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXVII

The end of the fiscal year was only the beginning of Giovanni's stressors. His meeting had not gone as planned and the late afternoon found him in his office, unnerved and staring at an unsent e-mail on the monitor in front of him. He had stared at it for so long that the letters hardly seemed to spell anything coherent anymore.

He turned his chair away from his desk and stood up to lean his forearm on the tinted plate glass window, sliding his other hand into the pocket of his Armani slacks. He was exceedingly uncomfortable, hot in his air-conditioned office; he could feel the sweat beading on his chest and his tie seemed to strangle him.

It seemed obvious now, as his fingers curled around the sleek shape of his cell phone in his pocket. He hadn't wanted to bring anyone else into things unnecessarily, but now he could see no other solution.

He threw a glance over his shoulder to verify that his office door was locked, as it had been only moments before, and pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

As he pressed the "call" button, he made his way to the small refrigerator in the corner of his office and extracted a bottle of water from it.

There was a soft click in the speaker, interrupting the ring, and a familiar voice came through the phone. "Medici Bank offices, this is Angelo speaking."

"_Ah_! It's good to hear your voice, Angelo," said Giovanni amicably, opening the bottle and taking a drink from it. "I have to speak to Lorenzo... I was under the impression that this was his office number. It's rather important."

Angelo hesitated momentarily. "This _is _his office number, but he's in the Springs for a seminar until tomorrow afternoon. I can send him an e-mail if you'd like."

Giovanni cringed. The plastic bottle crinkled in his hand. "Er... _no_, thank you, Angelo," he said. "I will call him later."

There was a pause. "Well, I hope you can get in touch with him," Angelo said. "He has been a bit _elusive_ lately."

Sighing, Giovanni set the water bottle down atop the refrigerator. "Very well. Thank you, Angelo."

"Of course, _signor_ Auditore. It's always a pleasure. Good afternoon."

Giovanni fidgeted with the bottle cap. "Good afternoon, Angelo." He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket.

Lorenzo often went on business trips, but it was rare that Angelo did not accompany him. It was rarer still that he went unaccompanied entirely. As he sat behind his desk, Giovanni wondered idly who had gone with him. He steepled his fingers and turned his eyes to the computer monitor. The words were once again words, rather than gibberish, and he read the e-mail over again before pressing the "send" button.

_Lorenzo,_

_ I am writing to you to discuss some potential difficulties regarding the Zaccardi accounts. I have had a number of meetings with a representative of theirs, and the results have proved unsatisfactory._

_ When you have a chance, please call me. I would prefer to speak about this in private. I am certain that you understand._

_ Thank you,_

_ Giovanni Auditore._


	68. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXVIII

"Would you look at _that_..."

Shaun looked up from his book, resting his index finger at the middle of the page to mark his place, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "_What_?"

"It's the guys from the other night." Rebecca took a long drink from an evil-looking red-orange concoction in a tall biodegradable resin cup.

Shaun looked out the window and across the street at a few people walking in a clump down the sidewalk, then frowned when he didn't recognize anyone. "Who? Rebecca, I am _busy_..."

Rebecca grinned, hardly hearing Shaun over the techno thumping in her glowing blue headphones. "The guys from karaoke! The middle eastern guy and his... _boyfriend_, maybe?"

Closing his eyes and muttering a few obscenities under his breath, Shaun picked up his teacup and took a long sip of Earl Grey.

"No, _look_ at them! They're... they look really hot together." Rebecca watched them until they left her line of sight, then turned back to the table.

"Rebecca, _please_..." Shaun finished off his tea, then looked down at his book and heard Rebecca sigh dramatically.

There was a short pause, filled with the clacking of keys on Rebecca's laptop, the thumping of ice cubes against thin plastic, and the sound of Rebecca having had a _brilliant idea_- which was a bit of a thrilled squeak. "_Shaun_."

Shaun sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up slightly with his fingers. "_Yes_?"

"The guy at the bar... the one who was watching you all night, from the lab?" Rebecca had a truly terrifying grin on. Shaun recoiled.

"Yes... _Desmond_, I think it was," he said contemptuously, sipping his tea.

Rebecca practically _wiggled_ in her seat. "Shaun, he's a _sex kitten_."

The chair beside Shaun made a horrible scooting sound, and he scowled first at the chair and then at the party responsible for the sound, who happened to have brought him a new pot of water. He stopped scowling momentarily to thank her, and then reinstated his scowl and turned it on Rebecca.

"_Lucy_. Look at Shaun's little friend." Rebecca grinned up at Lucy, who went around the table to get a look at the screen, then quirked an eyebrow, smiled, and sat down.

"He is not my _friend_, Rebecca... exactly what fantasy world are you living in?" Shaun poured hot water over the teabag in his cup and rested his chin on his hand.

Rebecca turned the computer around. "_This_ fantasy world, Shaun. Get a good look."

Shaun looked at the small screen. Rebecca had found the website of the bar at which Desmond worked, which seemed to include information the bartenders. Desmond smiled back at him seductively from a photograph, in which he was proudly standing over a flaming shot, grinning with his eyes slightly narrowed.

He was handsome and tall, dressed in a burgundy shirt that flattered his olive skin and the glint of white teeth that showed between his dark lips; the light from the fire glinted orange in his golden eyes. Shaun felt his lips parting, his eyes widening. He grimaced and occupied himself with reading the short biography beside the picture.

"Twenty-two years old... _Christ_, bit of a baby, isn't he?" Shaun poked at the teabag with a stir stick, then extracted it from the cup.

Rebecca cackled. "His age is the first thing you looked at! You _so_ want his nuts." She started to take the computer back but Shaun held it down.

"You would have said that about anything," he observed nonchalantly. "Specialty: Cookie Monster... what the _bloody hell_ is a Cookie Monster?" He paused. "Anyway, how did you find this? I don't think I said his name."

Smiling around her straw, Rebecca leaned forward on the table. "Facebook. I recognized him."

Shaun frowned, studying Desmond's face again before the computer slipped away into Rebecca's grasp.

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, Shaun knew that the image would be burned into his mind for the rest of the night.

He cleared his throat and took a sip of tea.

"Becca... did you do _any_ work while I was getting drinks?" Lucy sipped from a huge mug, cradling it in both hands lovingly.

Rebecca shook her head. "Not really," she said matter-of-factly.

Lucy frowned and looked into Rebecca's bag. A stack of papers lay inside it, untouched and thus ungraded. Her own stack sat in front of her, halfway completed; a red pen lay capped atop the finished pile. "You should probably get to work on that soon."

"_Probably_." Rebecca smiled and rested her head on Lucy's shoulder.

"Well, it's been _lovely_," Shaun began, but then stopped speaking when his phone began to ring in his pocket. A sudden terror-stricken look flashed over his face and then he looked as though he would be sick.

Lucy touched his arm. "It's your mom, isn't it?"

Shaun pulled the phone from his pocket. "_Er_... well, yes," he said, staring at the flashing lights on the small external screen.

"So don't answer it," said Rebecca helpfully.

"Yes, _thank you_," Shaun sniped, flipping the phone open and letting out an irritated sigh through his nose. He looked at his watch and a frown creased his forehead. "_Hello_, mother."


	69. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXIX

Altaïr sat across the table from Malik as the waiter tried feebly to explain the layout of the Mongolian grill while failing to avoid staring at Malik's left limb.

Malik cleared his throat. "_Yes_, thank you... we have been to this _exact_ restaurant before. You do not need to explain it to us." His eyes were smoldering oddly as they did on occasion, shaded by the brim of a black cadet cap.

The waiter looked taken aback and nodded. "A-alright. Can I get you anything to drink?"

"A Tsingtao," said Altaïr, presenting his driver's license to the waiter, who was clearly much younger than he was.

"Okay... a-and for you?" he asked Malik, trying to look directly at his face but failing, his gaze shifting awkwardly, flickering between the brim of the hat and Malik's shoulder.

Malik pulled his wallet from his pocket and set it on the table to pull his ID out of it. "I will have the same, thank you."

"Alright... you can, um, go up and get started any time you like."

The waiter left at top speed, and Malik scowled. "_Someone_ will not be getting a very good tip," he said gruffly, resting his elbow on the table and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked over the low wall toward the grill area. "This will be interesting."

Altaïr cringed. "I'm sorry, Mal, I didn't even think-"

"When do you _ever_ think?" Malik asked. His tone was gentle and amused. "Do not worry. I will make do. I _believe_ that under the ADA, they should have offered me help, but..." A grin just barely registered on his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, as he stood.

Frowning slightly, Altaïr got up from his seat and followed Malik to the buffet tables. He cursed the squirming of his insides; the feeling had been occurring off and on since the morning, whenever the image, real or imagined, of Malik's smile imprinted itself in his thoughts.

He hadn't seen Malik smile in a very long time, and the effects it seemed to have on his body were bewildering at best and completely mortifying at worst. Luckily, the worst had not come yet.

It had also been a very long time since he had seen Malik wear the particular pair of jeans he had elected to put on. The dark blue denim conformed to the curves of his backside and the thick muscles of his thighs in such a way that Altaïr could only look at him for a certain amount of time before having to take a deep breath and think about puppies.

When he'd arrived at the apartment he found his clothes laid out for him on his bed- old clothes with old memories, smelling of oak from the bottom drawer of the dresser.

Malik had forbidden him from putting on body spray, going so far as to hide it. When Altaïr had come out of the bathroom to complain, wearing no more than a towel, Malik had merely smiled at him and said "your deodorant is more than enough."

It was a strange implicit feeling of being _owned_ that sent Altaïr back to the bathroom to dress, bewildered and oddly intellectually aroused. It was the same feeling that kept him following close behind Malik through the buffet area.

When they returned to the table, their beers were already there, with empty chilled glasses set on coasters. Altaïr poured Malik's beer for him, which earned him a raised eyebrow and a subtle smirk.

"You're welcome," Altaïr said, and the corner of Malik's mouth twitched further upward.

"I do not think that I said _thank you_."


	70. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXX

It had been quite a while since Malik had walked the alleys of Old Town, but they were still very familiar to him. He knew the backs of the buildings, knew which corners it would be wise to look around before crossing in front of narrow paths.

There was little on his mind but the moment at hand; finals were over and he would not be required to pay an exorbitant sum for car repairs. He walked at Altaïr's side, watching stray gravel bounce on the concrete at their feet.

"You know," said Altaïr after a moment, to break the silence. He said it, however, before he had anything in mind with which to follow it.

Malik chuckled at the length of the awkward pause that followed the words. "You do not need to speak," he said.

Altaïr sighed. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his tight blue jeans. His head felt foggy and his feet seemed to be having difficulty remembering which way was forward; he was unsure whether that was the fault of the three beers or of Malik's cologne, cedar and leather and rosemary brought out by the heat of his body. Altaïr shivered involuntarily and closed his eyes, only to stumble slightly. When he reopened his eyes to right himself, Malik was watching him with an amused smile.

"Do you know why I brought you downtown? Why I asked you to come to dinner with me?" Malik asked, putting his hand in the pocket of his lightweight black jacket. A frown flitted over his face momentarily, then became another of his trademark smirks.

"Not really," Altaïr confessed. He took another surreptitious glance at Malik's backside and bit down lightly on his lower lip.

Malik shook his head, chuckling again. "You hardly ever know anything. It is funny."

Altaïr frowned. "Are you going to enlighten me, grandmaster?" he asked. "Why did you bring me here? Anyway, _I_ drove."

Chuckling, Malik adjusted his jacket on his shoulders. "I know this. Altaïr, why did I choose that T-shirt for you?" he asked.

"You keep asking questions." Altaïr sighed and looked down at his black Metallica T-shirt. It was tight on him; he'd had it since high school, and had gained a large amount of muscle mass since. The shirt conformed to his chest, the white print very slightly stretched over his pecs, the sleeves almost prohibitively tight around his deltoids. He shook his head. "I guess... I remember wearing it at Christmas," he offered.

"Precisely," said Malik. "It was the first Christmas after we moved in with you." He smiled, enjoying the memory for a moment. "Kadar and I had never celebrated Christmas, of course. It seemed stupid to me at the time."

Altaïr shook his head, bewildered. "But why-"

"Will you _let me finish_?" Malik chided. "You insisted on celebrating and cooked a Christmas dinner, to the best of your ability."

Laughing, Altaïr ducked his head. "The mashed potatoes were like..."

"Sawdust," said Malik. "They were like sawdust. Your cooking has improved since then, I must say."

Altaïr smiled. "Thanks." He looked down at his shirt again, at the cracked and worn screen print, then up at the street signs. They had walked quite far, about a mile down twisting alleyways when all was said and done, and had come to a crosswalk.

Malik adjusted his hat. "You bought the _smallest_ tree I had ever seen, after I had expressly told you _not_ to buy a tree." He fished once again in his pocket, then nodded, seemingly pleased with the result.

"It wouldn't have felt like Christmas without a tree," Altaïr said. "Anyway-"

"Spare me the details," said Malik. "In any case, I remember that you hung mistletoe and warned Kadar that he should not stand beneath it."

With the tiniest involuntary wince, Altaïr nodded. "Well, I hardly wanted you to walk in on... _well_..."

Malik smiled, fidgeting as they crossed the street. They were approaching the hotel atop which Altaïr had eaten lunch with Maria. "I understand. Your plan did not go as, _ha_... as_ planned_, however, as I recall avoiding kissing you for the entirety of the day."

"You didn't want to play," said Altaïr, almost petulantly, as they were crossing the street. They passed the hotel and the Starbucks on the first floor, and crossed another small side street.

There was a small jewel box theatre on the side street, a vintage clothing shop, and a tattoo parlor. On the corner was a restaurant with paradoxically completely non-vegetarian Rastafarian food.

Malik smiled, almost ruefully. "_No_, I did not." He paused, pulling a cigarette and lighter from his pocket, and looked around the low wall behind the restaurant.

Altaïr's eyebrows twitched upward. "Mal? What are you doing?"

"There is a windbreak. I need one," he said, turning the corner. Altaïr followed him, bewildered and wondering if Malik had _planned_ the breakage that was occurring somewhere inside his cranium.

There was a set of wrought-iron stairs to the roof behind the restaurant, and two walls, between which sat a large, quietly-humming electric box. Malik ducked behind the second wall and nudged a white plastic lawn chair out of the way, using the concrete barrier to block the wind as he awkwardly lit the cigarette between his lips.

Altaïr felt his cheeks flush slightly as he watched the smoke curl around Malik's fingers and then dissipate into the night. He watched the slow movement of Malik's chest beneath his thin white T-shirt, too surprised to look him in the eyes for fear Malik would once again withdraw from him. His gaze flickered upward to Malik's full, dark lips and he heard a sigh- his own- followed by a chuckle- Malik's.

"Are you alright, Altaïr? You look as if you will die from shock." Malik took a long, deep drag on the cigarette and let the smoke bleed out through his nose.

The only sound that Altaïr could force from his lips was a quiet grunt, punctuated by the irrational, involuntary movement of his hand to slide inside Malik's jacket.

When Malik smiled at him, his white teeth showing behind soft lips, his dark eyes calm, Altaïr moved in closer to kiss him, leaning his elbow on the wall above Malik's shoulder. He found himself stopped by Malik's large, demanding hand covering the lower half of his face, pressing the cigarette between his lips. Shuddering, he closed his eyes and took a slow pull; the smoke swirled in the dark as he exhaled, leaning back from Malik's hand.

He had hardly had time to take another breath when Malik grabbed the back of his neck, carefully but firmly, and pulled him in for a hard kiss, demanding and unrelenting and clumsy.

Altaïr groaned into Malik's mouth, licking at his lips, hardly noticing the taste of the stale tobacco as their teeth clicked together uncomfortably. The brim of Malik's hat knocked against Altaïr's forehead and finally, in frustration, Altaïr pushed it upward to lean in further, to kiss him deeper.

Malik leaned back against the wall and pulled Altaïr against him, relishing the heat of Altaïr's mouth and the gentle slide of Altaïr's tongue along the roof of his mouth, then dropped his hand to his side to flick the ash from the end of his cigarette harmlessly onto the concrete at their feet.

He leaned away from Altaïr's lips to flash a breathless smile and take another drag, leaving the cigarette in his mouth to slide his hand down Altaïr's muscular arm, admiring the shape of his chest before looking into his eyes. He took the cigarette between his fingers once again. "Now do you know why I brought you here?"


	71. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXI

There was a short pause, in which Altaïr tried, without knowing why, to distract himself from the gentle ache in his abdomen. He frowned at himself, then shook his head.

Malik only chuckled and kissed him again, briefly mouthing his lower lip, flicking his tongue over the raised white scar before pulling back. He studied Altaïr's golden eyes and ran his thumb along his cheekbone.

"I want you to get on your knees," said Malik, resting his hand on Altaïr's shoulder.

A soft sigh, fraught with desire, shuddered in Altaïr's chest. "_Oh God yes_," he breathed, kneeling in front of Malik and sliding his hands up his muscular thighs. He looked up, pressing his lips against the bulge at the front of Malik's jeans.

Malik stuck the cigarette between his lips and unzipped his tight jeans with a sly grin. He took a slow drag and then returned the cigarette to his hand before readjusting the brim of his hat. "I doubt I have to tell you what to do," he said, "but in case I do..." He stroked Altaïr's brown hair and gently pulled him closer. "_Suck_."

Altaïr groaned, his hands fumbling at Malik's jeans. He pulled him free and his breath quickened as he wrapped his hand around the thick shaft and stroked, looking upward to watch Malik shudder with pleasure. He felt strong fingers curling slightly at the back of his head and swallowed hard before wetting his lips with his tongue and leaning in to press a full-lipped kiss against the tip of Malik's cock.

Malik's breath caught in his throat and he gripped Altaïr's hair, carefully avoiding dropping ash on him. He took another long pull on the cigarette, then flicked the ash off of it, hissing through his teeth as a wet lick quickly turned into an almost burning cold patch. "_Altaïr_, now," he breathed.

Panting heavily, Altaïr took Malik's length in his mouth, swallowing around him. The tightness in his jeans was becoming unbearable; he fumbled at the fly as he ran his tongue along a thick, throbbing vein, then was distracted when Malik hissed a curse under his breath.

"Altaïr, I... _ohh_." Malik ground the cigarette out against the stone wall and leaned his shoulders on the wall, cupping the back of Altaïr's head in his hand. "_Yes_..."

Altaïr closed his eyes and relaxed as best he could, sliding his mouth along Malik's length until the tip touched the back of his throat. He shifted slightly to unzip his jeans.

"_Do not do it_," Malik breathed, and Altaïr opened his eyes to look upward, dragging his lips back along the heavy shaft. Malik's hips twitched, his lips parting in a silent cry, and he slid his hand down to the back of Altaïr's neck, gripping the soft hairs there. "I will take care of you in due time."

Groaning, Altaïr turned his full attention to his task. Even his briefs felt painfully restrictive. He ran his hands up Malik's thighs, pulling back enough to slide his tongue over the leaking head. He nearly choked as Malik pulled him closer and thrust into the wet heat of his mouth, but relaxed quickly.

He concentrated on the weight on his tongue as Malik bucked into his mouth, stroking his hair with rough fingers and watched Malik's white teeth bear down on his lower lip, watched his dark brows furrow; he couldn't contain a moan and he was glad he hadn't. Malik's mouth went slack and he dug his fingertips into Altaïr's shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

"I-I... Altaïr, _yes_, I am..." Malik's voice was husky and desperate as his hips twitched out of rhythm.

Altaïr wrapped his hand around the base of Malik's cock, stroking and sucking him feverishly; he slid his left hand under Malik's shirt and caressed his side. His eyes closed once again as Malik roughly tugged his hair in warning; he came quickly, biting back a harsh cry and letting it bleed out as a rumbling moan. Altaïr swallowed several times and pulled back, then looked up as if searching for approval.

Malik slid his hand up to Altaïr's cheek, panting and supporting himself on the wall, and combed his fingers through short hair. "_Altaïr_," he whispered, smiling breathlessly.

"_Malik_," Altaïr breathed, carefully getting to his feet and meeting Malik's eyes for a moment before kissing him tenderly.

Chuckling, Malik mouthed Altaïr's lips and slid his hand down his chest. He kissed down the side of Altaïr's neck and cupped him through tight briefs.

Altaïr's hips jerked toward Malik's hand and he hissed in pain. Malik worked his erection free from his briefs and pumped him firmly, eliciting a pleasurable cry. He nudged Altaïr's nose with his own, tilting his head upward, then kissed him hotly.

Whimpering through his nose, Altaïr braced an arm on the wall and grasped Malik's shoulder with the other hand, licking along Malik's tongue and thrusting desperately into his hand, groaning with pleasure at each squeeze, each gentle twist.

Harsh, burning tightness had already settled into his abdomen; violent shudders racked his body as he came with little warning, burying his face in Malik's neck and letting loose a sharp cry; Malik laughed, catching the sticky fluid in his hand and relishing Altaïr's tremulous groan as he stroked him once more.

"J-_Jesus_," Altaïr stammered, swallowing hard, clinging to Malik as his breathing slowed.

Malik grinned. "_Hardly_," he said. "I am very sorry, but we cannot stay like this all night. There is a police station around the corner, after all."


	72. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXII

Tired and almost painfully contented, Altaïr collapsed in his bed when he and Malik arrived at the apartment. He pulled his knees to his chest and untied his dirty black Chucks, then toed them off. They fell with two distinct thuds on the floor.

"You are always so _loud_." Malik chuckled, padding into the room with a glass of water in hand. He paused just inside the doorway and looked at Altaïr. "_Ah_... I was wondering if you would mind if we slept in my bed," he said gently. "I can reach the nightstand from there."

Altaïr's eyes widened slightly. He sat up, trying to keep a lopsided smile from forming on his face. "We?"

Malik rolled his eyes, setting the glass down on a small table. "Yes. _We_. That is, unless you do not _wish_ to sleep with me, in which case, I-"

"_Mal_..." Altaïr shook his head, grinning despite himself. "Of course I want to."

"Good. Get rid of that stupid smile," Malik scolded playfully. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.

Altaïr laughed softly, struggling out of the tight band T-shirt and throwing it into the hamper. He stood and met Malik at the end of the bed. He rested his hands on Malik's hips momentarily, then fingered the button of his jeans. "May I?"

Malik took off his hat and hung it on the bedpost. "Yes," he said, almost laughing.

Resting his forehead against Malik's, Altaïr unbuttoned and unzipped the tight jeans and slid them down Malik's thighs. They fell to the floor and Altaïr's hands went to the hem of Malik's white T-shirt, pulling upward. Malik swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden dryness in his mouth. He did not resist as Altaïr pulled the T-shirt off over his head and threw it into the hamper. Altaïr's hand grazed his left shoulder, then shifted to lay flat over it.

Malik squirmed slightly at the affectionate touch, then bit down on his lip as he felt Altaïr's fingers gently caressing thick scar tissue. He closed his eyes and turned his head away, grimacing at the writhing of his stomach. He gripped Altaïr's shoulder. "Altaïr, I-"

"Do you not want me to touch?" Altaïr kissed Malik's bare shoulder, nuzzling his olive skin. "Tell me and I'll stop."

Malik opened his eyes, frowning harshly at first as he looked at Altaïr's face. When he saw the kind smile in golden eyes, however, he nodded. "Ah... maybe it is alright," he said softly, sliding a fingertip along the white knife scar on Altaïr's collarbone. "Where did you get this?"

"Oh... knife fight," Altaïr said. He indicated a pinker, ropy scar on his upper arm, smiling sheepishly. "This is the rest of it. I was at a bar and some guy didn't like how I was looking at his girlfriend... he made to punch me with one of those push knives."

A slight wry smile twitched at the corners of Malik's mouth. "You should be more careful," he said, leaning down to kiss the scar on Altaïr's arm.

Altaïr felt his cheeks flush. A laugh shook in his chest as Malik's goatee brushed his arm, tickling him. "I know."

"You _will_ be more careful," Malik murmured against Altaïr's skin. His tone was gentle, but there was a hint of bitter annoyance in it that made Altaïr's chest ache.

"Yes, I will," Altaïr replied, threading his fingers through Malik's dark hair and leaning down to kiss him.

Malik smiled against Altaïr's lips, kissing him briefly before pulling away. "Take off your pants, if you would. I am going to brush my teeth, as should you... and then we will go to bed."


	73. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXIII

Altaïr slept through the alarm.

It happened on occasion. Malik usually found something to throw at him in order to wake him. However, as he reached over to press the "off" button on the clock radio, he realized that he had no desire to throw anything at anyone. He rolled over to see Altaïr curled under the covers like a sleeping animal, and a bewildered smile found its way to his face.

"_Altaïr_," he whispered, supporting himself on his elbow and looking at Altaïr's face. When Altaïr did not respond, Malik shook his head, amused, and moved to spoon behind him, pressing full-lipped gentle kisses along his shoulders.

Altaïr jerked awake, grunting softly. He shifted and blinked, then paused as he was for a moment, collecting himself. "Mal?"

Malik smiled against the back of Altaïr's neck. "_Mm_. The alarm went off. I think you have work."

"Yeah." Altaïr rolled over onto his stomach, stretching to his full length and then relaxing. "_Ugh_... thanks for not throwing shit at me this time."

"It was my pleasure," said Malik. He sat up and traced his fingers up Altaïr's spine; Altaïr shuddered at the gentle touch and Malik chuckled.

Altaïr felt the pad of Malik's thumb sliding in a circle, where his neck and shoulder met. "What are you doing?" he asked.

Malik ran his thumb over a crescent of small, raised scars, and then over an opposing curve slightly below it. "Do you remember this?" he murmured.

"Oh... _fuck_... yeah," Altaïr said, laughing into the pillow. "How could I forget?" He propped himself up on his forearms and enjoyed the gentle stroking of Malik's fingertip along the thick tissue. "You tied me to the headboard and _bit me_ until I bled." He closed his eyes and bit down on his lip, flushing as the wet heat of Malik's tongue slid over the mark.

Laughing against Altaïr's shoulder, Malik kissed the wet patch of skin and stroked his side. "That is close, but you have forgotten the knife."

"By _no means_ have I forgotten the knife." Altaïr laughed, sitting up. "I remember that moment of abject terror, thanks. _That's_ why it scarred." He grinned and scratched his chest.

Malik smiled back at him. "You are trying to make me feel bad. It will not work... I remember the sounds you made during and after."

Altaïr adjusted his briefs and reached out to touch Malik's face. He bit his lip, enjoying the roughness of dark stubble on his fingers. "So do I," he said softly, tilting his head and smiling as Malik took his hand and kissed his fingertips.

"They were hardly sounds of terror." Malik chuckled.

Altaïr grinned. "No. They weren't." His shoulders shook with a laugh. "I always liked when you were rough on me." He folded his legs under himself, looking at the clock and sighing. "I should get ready to go... I'm sorry."

Malik shook his head. "Do not be sorry." He turned, putting his feet on the floor, and stood up to stretch. "I will drive you."


	74. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXIV

Ezio folded his arms on the desk in front of him, then rested his head on his arms. The morning shift at the bank was always the dullest, and to make matters worse, he hadn't eaten breakfast because his mouth had been otherwise occupied.

He crossed his ankles and tucked his legs under his chair, looking up at the glass door, watching the people milling along the sidewalk out front. He watched a middle-aged man walking past in a suit and tie, looking like someone had shaken New York and he was what had fallen out. His wife was beside him, wearing a floral-print sundress.

They looked old-fashioned, like something out of a movie. She held his arm and he smiled as if there were no one else in the world but her.

Ezio shifted in his seat and scratched his chin. He'd seen that expression before, on his father's face, on his mother's face.

He'd seen it on Leonardo's face.

It always made him mildly uncomfortable when Leonardo looked at him that way. They had been together for two years and still it made Ezio's stomach squirm to talk of his feelings for Leonardo.

He shuffled his foot self-consciously on the floor and stared at the buttons on the sleeve of his gold dress shirt, wondering if the awkwardness would ever wear off. Everyone he knew was either single or casually dating; none of them had been living with someone for over a year.

A hand rested on Ezio's shoulder and he jumped, then looked up to see his father standing over him.

"Hi," he said.

Giovanni nodded. "Good morning, Ezio." He gripped his son's shoulder gently, then let go. "How are you today?" he asked.

Ezio shrugged. "Hungry," he admitted. He tilted his head, looking up at his father's face. Giovanni looked worn and nervous. His collar was rumpled, half under and half over the edge of his vest. "Dad... what's going on?"

Sighing, Giovanni looked around the empty lobby of the bank. "_Ah_... well, it is a delicate situation. Lorenzo is looking into it... or _will be_, provided I can get in touch with him. That is my project for the morning." He put on a stoic smile. "Nothing that you need worry about," he added, holding a hand up when Ezio began to speak.

"_But_," Ezio said anyway, and Giovanni lifted an eyebrow at him.

"All will be well. You're coming over tonight, yes?" he asked. "Your mother and I are looking forward to meeting your friends."

Ezio frowned at the change of subject. "Yeah. I guess."

Giovanni nodded. "Very good. I'm going to make a phone call... I'm sure you can handle the _massive influx_ of customers." He patted Ezio's shoulder gently and headed back up the stairs, and Ezio scowled at his back, then turned back to his window and jumped in surprise when he saw a young man waiting there to cash his paycheck.


	75. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXV

Giovanni had hardly wanted to interrupt Lorenzo's business trip; he knew all too well how spare hours were spent in expensive hotel rooms. However, he had a potential crisis on his hands, and averting the situation was worth a breathless answer and giggling in the background.

He entered his office and shut the door behind himself; he locked it carefully and went to his desk, then sat on the edge of it and called Lorenzo's cell phone.

There was a pause, a bit too long for Giovanni's tastes, and then the call kicked over to voicemail.

"You've reached Lorenzo Medici. I can't come to the phone right now; please leave your name and number and I'll get back to you. _Ciao_."

Giovanni scowled at the chipper tone of Lorenzo's recorded voice and waited through the secondary message telling him to leave a voicemail.

He cleared his throat. "Lorenzo, it's Giovanni Auditore. I'm not sure if you got my e-mail, but the situation I mentioned therein is becoming more urgent with every hour of inaction. Please call me as soon as you get this. We really must do something about the Zaccardi accounts. Thank you."

Hanging up, Giovanni almost threw his phone down onto his desk. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor.

There was a knock on the door and Giovanni winced. He got up and went to the door, then put his ear to it momentarily, but heard nothing outside. He chewed his lip and took a look at his watch.

He had no meetings scheduled and did not expect anyone. Gritting his teeth, he opened the door and was greeted, much to his surprise and relief, by a brightly-smiling Leonardo.

"_Buona mattina_," said Leonardo cheerfully, and then frowned. "_Signor_ Auditore, are you alright?"

Giovanni stared into Leonardo's blue eyes for a moment, bewildered. "Y-_yes_," he said after a pause. "What brings you here?"

Leonardo smiled again and held a brown paper bag out toward Giovanni. "Breakfast," he replied, as though this answered everything.

"I..." Giovanni's forehead creased with a confused frown as he took the bag. "Thank you, but _why_...?"

With a shrug, Leonardo handed Giovanni a cup of coffee. "Ezio left without having breakfast this morning, and, well, when _signora_ Auditore called to speak to me about a commission this morning, she said that you had not had breakfast either-"

"Yes, well, _thank you_, Leonardo..." Bemused, Giovanni looked at the coffee and brown bag. "I appreciate your thinking of me. Ezio says you'll be joining us tonight...?"

Leonardo nodded. "Of course! I look forward to it!"

Giovanni smiled slightly. "Very good. I'll see you then. Thank you for breakfast," he said, feeling queasy.

"_Nessun problema_!" said Leonardo. "I hope you enjoy it." He smiled and turned, starting down the hallway, and Giovanni shut and locked the door again, then turned to lean his back against it.

The office phone rang and Giovanni hurried over to it and picked up. "Medici Bank, northern branch... Giovanni Auditore speaking."

"_Signor_ Auditore," said a voice. "I had hoped to hear from you by now with regards to my accounts."

Giovanni recoiled. He grit his teeth and swallowed. "_Signor_ Zaccardi," he said tightly. "I have already told you that I'm unable to-"

"I'd like to hear from you by five o'clock tonight to outline the process. That would be _agreeable_, I think... and we can meet Monday morning to discuss the specifics."

Giovanni's mouth went dry, then became too wet as the bitter taste of bile crept into the back of his throat, the scent filling his sinuses. He swallowed hard, curling a hand into a tight fist. "I... I can't-"

"Thank you very much. I will speak to you later. Remember, Giovanni: time is of the essence if we're to keep the police out of this."

There was a click and Giovanni stared at his desk as he hung the phone up. Almost immediately it rang again, and Giovanni's heart jerked and pounded unpleasantly in his chest as he picked up.

"_Hello_?" he said weakly, leaning on the desk.

"_Signor_ Auditore? This is Angelo Ambrogini. I'm terribly sorry if I've interrupted anything."

Giovanni sat down on the edge of the desk and closed his eyes meditatively. "No, you haven't. How can I help you, Angelo?"

The sound of a child crying was audible in the background, and Angelo swore under his breath. "I'm sorry... I'm, er... running herd on Lorenzo's children at the moment." There was a pause, in which the sound of Angelo's gentle voice could be heard, muffled, in the background, then he cleared his throat. "_Ah_... in any case, I got your e-mail this morning about Lorenzo. I'm sorry to tell you this, _signor_ Auditore, but it appears that _signor _Medici is unreachable. I tried to get in touch with him, but the call went to his voicemail." He sighed. "It also does not appear that he has been online to read his e-mail. I checked his account today and saw one from you... it was unread. I didn't read it."

Giovanni cringed, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder and opening the paper bakery bag to find a blueberry muffin, which he extracted and stared at for a moment. "I _see_," he said. "Very well. Who has he taken with him this time, if not you?" He tried to keep his voice light, but failed.

Angelo clicked his tongue and whispered something to one of the children, then returned his attention to the call. "He doesn't seem to have brought anyone along this time. Perhaps he could not afford the distraction."

"Ah... _fantastic_," said Giovanni feebly. "Thank you, Angelo." He sighed, picking up his coffee cup and taking a drink from it. "Ah... _wait_. Did you try his _hotel room_?"

"_Mm_. He didn't answer. He may have been out of the room at the time." Angelo hissed something as an aside to a squeaky-voiced child.

Giovanni sighed, setting the paper coffee cup down on his desk. "Knowing him, he may have been in a _different_ room..."

Angelo cleared his throat and Giovanni heard a slight tinge of bitterness, even jealousy, as he spoke. "Yes, well... be that as it may, I have many lines open and I'm hoping to hear from him. I'll give you a call when he gets in touch with me."

"Very well." Giovanni looked at the muffin in his hand and shoved it back into the bag. "Thank you for the update."

"Of course. Have a nice day, _signore_."

"You as well."

The call ended, and Giovanni hung up and covered his face with his hands, letting out a stream of hissed oaths into his palms. The smell of sweat on his hands made his stomach turn.

He looked at the cell phone lying on his desk through his fingers, and his eyebrows twitched upward; he nodded to himself and picked it up again, dialing an old friend.

The ring in the small speaker was deafening. It was finally cut off with a harsh click. There was a quiet murmur on the other end and then a pause. "Hello?"

Giovanni sighed in relief. "Ah, good. Someone's answering their phone." He picked up a pen from the cup on his desk and fiddled with it to keep his hand from shaking. "Uberto, I have a favor to ask of you."


	76. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXVI

Malik pulled up to the curb outside the body shop and glanced sidelong at Altaïr. "I hope you have a good day," he said gently as he parked the car.

Altaïr smiled and looked at the clock on the dash. "I'm sure I will," he replied. "We've got a couple minutes... I wanted to ask you a question."

There was a sharp knock on the window and Altaïr jumped and looked over to see Maria waving at him. He opened the door and got out, and she threw her arms around him briefly.

"_Al_... I'm heading out, just came to pick up my paycheck... but I saw you and thought I'd like to say hello to Mal..." She smiled broadly and looked Altaïr over, taking his shoulders in her hands. "_You seem happy_," she said _sotto voce_ and Altaïr felt his cheeks warm.

Malik opened his door and got out of the car. "Maria, I would assume," he said with a slight smile.

"Mal." Maria brushed a bit of hair back from her forehead. "How are you today?"

"I am well, thank you," Malik replied cordially. "I was just about to leave... the line for book buyback will be a nightmare, I think."

Maria winced. "Ah... yes, it would be. It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she said.

Malik chuckled. "The pleasure is mine, I think," he said, and Altaïr choked on his energy drink. "Are you alright?"

Altaïr ducked his head, wiping his mouth. "Fine," he said between coughs. "Just fine."

"_Hey_! Al, are you coming?" shouted Ryan from the bay door. "This muffler's not going to fix itself!"

Scowling at his feet, Altaïr curled his left hand in a tight fist. "_Yeah_, I'll be right there! Jesus." He gave Maria an affectionate jab in the shoulder and walked around the front of the car, pausing at Malik's side momentarily. "I'll see you later," he said gently. "Pick me up at six?"

"I will." Malik smiled, gently but pointedly brushing Altaïr's hand with his own.

Maria laughed softly. "I'll see you boys later. We should have coffee someday, alright?" She smiled over her shoulder as she headed toward her car, and Altaïr waved to her.

"You should get to work," said Malik as he got into the car.

Altaïr nodded. "I guess you're right." He looked over his shoulder and frowned at Ryan, who was watching them again. "See you at six."

"Alright." Malik pulled the door shut.

"Okay." Altaïr turned away from the car reluctantly and went into the bay, drying sweaty palms one by one on his khaki pants, then taking a long drink of NOS.

"Who was that guy?" asked Ryan, following Altaïr through the bay.

Altaïr frowned over his shoulder at Ryan. "Mal. My roommate. My car's out of gas," he lied. "Why?"

Ryan lifted his eyebrows. "_Ha_. Looked like a boyfriend or something."

"I don't like how you talk," said Altaïr, opening the door to the office and standing just inside to clock in.

"It would explain why you don't want to hook up with Maria," Ryan said, leaning in the doorframe.

Altaïr rolled his eyes. "Back the _fuck off_," he said, attempting to duck under Ryan's arm. He was pushed back into the office.

Ryan grinned at him. "Awfully defensive, aren't you?" He laughed. "He _is_ your boyfriend, isn't he?"

Closing his eyes momentarily, Altaïr shook his head. "You have _no_ idea how stupid you are," he muttered. "Get the fuck out of my way and you won't find out." He shoved Ryan aside, surprising even himself with his strength, then set the NOS bottle down on the counter and headed over to a Taurus with a bent muffler.

"Man, Al." Ryan leaned on the side of the car, watching Altaïr examine the muffler. "It's probably just as well, huh? I gather his kind don't take kindly to that queer shit." He smirked slightly; Altaïr didn't see it, but he almost felt it. "You've got to keep that guy off airplanes, huh?"

Jason looked into the bay from the front counter. "_Hey_!" he said, but the exclamation fell on deaf ears.

Altaïr frowned, looking up at Ryan in disbelief. "What the _hell_ did you just say?" he asked, pulling himself to his feet on the spoiler.

Ryan folded his arms over his chest. "How'd he lose that arm, anyway? Forget to let go of a bomb or something?"

"Hey!" said Jason again, as a flash of red shot through Altaïr's field of vision.

Before Ryan could duck away, Altaïr had backhanded him roughly across the face with his left hand. "_Watch your fucking mouth_!" Altaïr growled, his eyes narrowed in rage.

"_Al_!" Jason ran across the bay and shoved him away from Ryan. "What the hell is going on?"

Altaïr watched a red mark form on Ryan's face, with a thick gap in the middle, and a vicious smile crept over his face. "Serves you _fucking right_," he spat. "He's practically a refugee, you asshole!"

Ryan stared back at him, bewildered and covering his stinging face with a hand.

"What the hell is going on?" Jason asked again, stepping between Altaïr and Ryan. He was almost comically short, all of five and a half feet, but there was something oddly imposing about him.

"F-fucker _slapped_ me," said Ryan finally, and Jason turned on him.

Altaïr glared daggers at him. "That was a _backhand_, you pussy."

Jason threw a scowl over his shoulder. "I'm going to _ignore_ that, Al... but you're not allowed to talk right now." He sighed through his nose. "Ryan... I don't _even_... firstly, I have to tell you that we're an _equal opportunity_ employer."

Ryan rubbed his cheek, staring at the ground.

"Secondly, that's... that was fucking hate speech and _not cool_," Jason said. He looked a bit like the angriest kindergarten teacher. Altaïr smirked, then blanched slightly as Jason rounded on him. "And _you_... Al, that was _incredibly_ inappropriate. I need to speak to both of you in the office. You'll need to read my write-ups and sign."

"Alright," said Altaïr quietly.

"Yes, sir," Ryan replied. He threw a glance over his shoulder at Altaïr as he followed Jason out of the room, then shoved his hands in his pockets angrily. His cheek was hot red and it looked as though he might end up with a black eye.

Altaïr found this quite satisfactory.


	77. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXVII

Ezio returned from his lunch break to find the bank quite full of hourly workers depositing paychecks. He sighed, meandering behind the desk, and then paused momentarily, recalling what his father had said. He stood in the doorway, tilting his head to look into the lobby.

As his vision shifted, the world drifted into hazy blue-grey; where there had been people there were now only colored shapes, many blurring indistinctly with the dullness of the walls and windows, blending with the world outside, relatively unimportant.

Ezio felt his heartbeat quicken involuntarily as he saw a few of the shapes, two of which were standing at the windows of the tellers, take on a harsh red glow. He unconsciously sought out a bright blue light on which to rest his eyes, and found one, standing just outside the door.

He shivered slightly and let his vision return to normal, then closed his eyes to look away from the crowd of people. He heard someone sniping at one of the tellers about an overdrawn account, and a man at the nearest window trying to convince another teller that he needed to speak to a higher authority. He cleared his throat and pulled his sleeves down over his forearms, then went to the first window.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said to the man at the window, putting a gentle hand on the teller's shoulder. "Emily, I'll take care of this. What seems to be the problem?"

The man scowled. "I'd like to speak to your manager. This kid won't let me have my money."

Ezio nodded politely. "I am a supervisor, sir. Let me take a look at your account and I'll-"

"You? Supervisor?" The man at the window laughed derisively. "Kid, I want to talk to someone who's been out of diapers for a little longer. _Honestly_, I thought at _this_ bank-"

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down. Mister Auditore is not available right now, and we're a bit short-staffed today. I see what's going on with your account." Ezio leaned on the desk, looking at the monitor. "You're trying to deposit a check, yes?"

The man grunted impatiently. "_Yes_."

Ezio pushed a strand of hair from his eyes. "Okay. The trouble is that we can't automatically accept a check for that amount." He'd heard his father explain holds a thousand times, and the explanation never seemed to sink in. "We have to put a hold on much of it in order to lessen the risk that _we_ take-"

"You don't trust my employer, then?" the customer sniped irritably.

The teller who sat between Ezio and the customer had scooted her chair to the side of the small booth, nervously trying to avoid being boxed in. Ezio let her out of the booth and sat down, then scratched his chin. "It's hardly _personal_, sir. It's policy at most any bank. The financial institution has to be certain that the check will clear, and thus the money will be repaid. It works a bit like a loan. And then once the check clears from the other bank, the rest will arrive in your account as yours to spend."

The customer grunted his displeasure. "Look. I don't care about all that. I just want to cash my damn check."

"I'm sorry, sir. I cannot cash a check for three thousand dollars. I'm sure Emily told you that we can cash out five hundred; however, the rest of it will have to be cleared before it'll be released." Ezio folded his arms on the desk in front of him, smiling apologetically. "There's nothing else I can do for you."

"_Fine_. I'll take the five hundred." The customer tapped his foot impatiently on the floor as Ezio started to count out the bills. "I can take out the rest at an ATM, right?"

Ezio frowned, pausing to stare at a fifty dollar bill in disbelief. He looked up at the customer. "Uh... you'll only be able to take out the amount that is in your account... that is to say, what was in there _before_ the check. In essence-"

"So you're stealing my money!"

Groaning, Ezio tensed a fist momentarily. "_Sir_, as I said, the money given you before the hold is lifted can be thought of as a loan against your check."

"What's the _hold up_?" The voice was as large as the man from whence it came. Ezio looked up at the next person in line at the window he occupied. He wore a leather jacket and held a motorcycle helmet in a huge hand. After a moment of astonishment and nervousness, Ezio recognized him, with a degree of relief, as the entertaining and friendly bouncer from the bar.

The customer at the window turned around. His eyeline met roughly with the biker's shoulder. Even from behind, Ezio could somehow tell that the customer's eyebrows were hiding in his hairline as the biker tilted his head inquisitively at him.

"I'll take the five hundred, thank you," said the customer hurriedly as he turned back toward Ezio. "Thank you for the explanation."


	78. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXVIII

"You seem _shaken_."

Altaïr frowned at Malik as he pulled his seatbelt over his shoulder and clicked it into place. "Ah... well. Hardly." He leaned back in his seat, combing his fingers through his sweaty hair. "Had a... really stupid moment today."

Malik put the car in drive and started out of the parking lot. "I see," he said, and then fell silent.

"Are you okay?" Altaïr asked, stretching his left arm and rubbing the crook of his elbow lightly with his fingertips. He winced slightly and folded his arms over his chest.

Nodding, Malik turned out of the lot and onto the main drag. "I am quite well," he said. "I have been thinking about last night."

Altaïr felt a strange twinge in his gut. "Yeah, me too," he said cautiously.

"But you have been at work. I have had all day to myself to think." Malik smiled slightly, pulling up to a stop light and looking Altaïr in the eyes. "I apologize for treating you so harshly."

With a weak laugh, Altaïr shook his head. "Don't apologize... I just..." He laughed again, looking out the window as the light turned green and Malik turned his attention back to the road. "_Why_? Why did you decide you wanted, uh... _that_?"

Malik looked over his shoulder and carefully changed lanes. "Because clearly, we are still attracted to each other." He laughed quietly, gently. "There seemed little point in denying ourselves."

Altaïr opened his mouth, but no words came out. He closed it and shifted in his seat. "I see," he said after a moment. He rubbed his sides with his hands and his forehead creased with a slight frown.

"You are very quiet. Is this not what you had wanted?" Malik took a turn, then muttered a curse under his breath as he found himself stopped behind a long row of cars.

"It's not that." Altaïr crossed his ankles and stared at a bright white spot of glare on the car in front of them. "I wanted it. I just didn't expect I'd get it." A small smirk lifted the corner of his mouth and he looked down at his knees, trying to ignore the heat flooding his face.

Malik chuckled softly. "I see." An odd, elusive smile flickered over his face as he turned momentarily, watching Altaïr avoid his eyes. "You still seem stressed. What was the _stupid moment_ you mentioned earlier?"

Sighing, Altaïr scratched his shin. "You remember this morning?"

"No. I have developed selective amnesia from living with you," Malik said with a laugh as the line of cars began to creep forward. "Do you mean to ask whether I remember dropping you off? I do."

Altaïr once again rested his head on the back of the seat. "Well, uh... I got written up today." He flipped the sun visor down as Malik turned west toward the setting sun. "Want me to, uh..." He gestured awkwardly and Malik nodded. Altaïr folded down the visor on Malik's side.

"Thank you. What did you do to deserve being written up?" Malik asked, his tone teasing, amused.

"Backhanded a guy." Altaïr set his forearm on the armrest, leaning his head against the window.

Malik frowned, trying to keep a laugh from escaping. It did anyway. "A customer?"

Altaïr's chest shook with laughter. "_No_! That would have gotten me _fired_. It was a coworker. Remember that guy who yelled at me to get to work?"

With a shrug, Malik turned into the parking lot of a grocery store. "Yes, I suppose," he replied.

"Yeah, _well_, asshole thought it would be funny to make terrorist jokes about you." Altaïr made a sour face. "He got what was coming to him," he said.

Malik pulled into a spot and looked at Altaïr askance. "What did he say?"

Altaïr cringed at a sudden pain in his chest. "_Ugh_... I don't want to say it. But, um... he said something about keeping you off of airplanes." He looked away from Malik, watching a bird peck at a discarded half-empty package of potato chips on the ground. "And he said... he insinuated... that you'd had an accident with explosives." He winced, slumping in his seat against the door.

"Is that all?" asked Malik, and Altaïr looked at him. He was staring at the steering wheel, holding it at the bottom. There was an odd sort of distant darkness in his eyes, and Altaïr couldn't fight the feeling that he would be unable to reach him.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything-"

"You should have been more careful." Malik sighed. "You do not need to lose your job over trivialities."

Altaïr scowled. "You're anything but trivial," he sniped, then his cheeks reddened and he coughed into his hand. "Anyway, that wasn't all he said. He made some implications about you and me... and..." He trailed off and unfastened his seatbelt.

"_Us_?" Malik asked the steering column. A tinge of pink crept over his cheeks.

"If there is such a thing," Altaïr mumbled, opening the door. He was about to get out of the car when Malik grabbed his wrist. He turned his head.

Malik smiled up at him momentarily, then slid his hand down to hold Altaïr's. He let go after a moment's eye contact and unfastened his seatbelt. "You will have to explain what you mean by that."


	79. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXIX

Giovanni settled himself on the sofa, watching his youngest son carefully line up the furniture along the walls of the home theatre.

"Is _zio_ Mario coming over tonight?" Petruccio asked hopefully, unfolding the legs of a microphone stand and setting it in the middle of the room.

"No... he had some business to take care of," said Giovanni. "In any case, it's best if he doesn't ride that _motorcycle_ of his in the dark." He rested his left ankle on his right knee, then draped his wrist over his foot. A bottle of beer dangled from his fingers.

Petruccio frowned disappointedly. "_Oh_... I guess," he said, picking up a guitar stand and unfolding it. He set the two guitar controllers in either side of it.

A few thudding sounds and a squeal of door hinges loudly announced Federico's presence. "Hey, dad... I'm home." He padded into the room and smiled. "_Hey_, kiddo!" he added, scooping Petruccio into his arms.

"_Hey_, I'm not _done_!" Petruccio fussed, dangling awkwardly from Federico's arms, his limbs flailing at odd angles.

Federico set him down on the carpeted floor. "Alright, _jeez_." He watched his brother go back to work studiously arranging the room, then retrieved a beer from the mini-fridge and sat beside his father.

"How is Mario?" asked Giovanni quietly, taking the bottle from Federico and opening it for him, then passing it back.

With a sigh, Federico settled back against the couch. "He's doing good. I, uh... he had me do a couple of errands for him."

Giovanni nodded. "I expected as much." He took a long drink from the bottle in his hand and nudged Federico's knee with his foot, looking toward the young boy currently setting up the drum kit. "I don't really want to talk about this in front of Petruccio," he added, quietly, then patted Federico's knee and stood. "Your mother made dinner. I would suggest you have some."

Federico nodded and followed his father out of the den and up the stairs. He cleared his throat. "Uh... dad? Can I ask you something?" His voice was soft and concerned.

Looking over his shoulder at his son, Giovanni nodded. "Please do."

"I guess there's some kind of shitstorm brewing," Federico said. "Something about some cover-up. _Zio_ Mario said there's a lot of money tied up in it." He rubbed his forearm awkwardly. "Should we be worried about this?"

Giovanni was about to reply when the doorbell rang.

Federico threw a furtive glance toward the door and frowned. "Ah... I'll get it."


	80. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXX

"_Federico_!" Ezio grinned as the door was opened and quickly wrapped his arms tightly around his older brother, picking him up off of the floor, letting his feet dangle mere inches from solid ground.

Federico made an odd strangled sound, kicking his legs slightly until Ezio returned him to the ground. He coughed into his hand. "Hey, squirt," he said weakly. "How's it going?"

Ezio smiled and patted Federico on the shoulder. "Good. Don't die."

"_Oh_, good. Don't worry about _me_." Federico smiled.. "Uh... I guess you guys could come in," he laughed, stepping out of the way to allow Ezio and Leonardo to enter the house.

Ezio kicked his shoes off. "You're such a great host," he laughed, then went into the kitchen and found his father, whom he hugged tightly. "Hey, dad."

Giovanni smiled. "Good evening, Ezio."

"_Ezio_, honey, Malik and Altaïr are here," said Leonardo from the entryway.

Maria peeked around the corner and smiled. "Leonardo, good evening-_ oh_... come in, boys!" she said pleasantly. "Come have some dinner!"

"Uh... nice to meet you, Mrs. Auditore," said Altaïr, putting his hand on Malik's back and closing the door behind them.

"Is Claudia planning to join us?" asked Ezio.

"No, she's at a friend's house for the night," said Maria.

Federico grinned. "The one with the awesome rack," he said, to a knowing nod from Ezio.

Maria scowled at her sons. "Well, _yes_... but she's a very nice young lady, and she's taking Claudia shopping for her prom dress in the morning." She folded her arms over her chest. "I'm not sure how your sister ended up with such a sweet friend-"

"Voodoo?" Ezio snickered, taking the bottle of beer from Federico's hand and sipping from it.

Despite Maria's disapproving frown, there was a ghost of a smile in her eyes as she brushed past her sons to go to the kitchen. "Well, that may be the case, but it's not the point."


	81. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXXI

"Clearly I did not think about the difficulty inherent in this." Malik frowned, examining the guitars and drum kit. He scratched the back of his neck. "Everything requires the use of... _well_..." He sighed.

Leonardo took the microphone from its stand and thrust it toward Malik. "You could sing," he said.

Malik held his hand up, pushing the microphone away. "_No_, thank you." He managed a lukewarm smile. "I am perfectly content to watch, I think."

With a slight frown, Leonardo put the microphone back in the stand and sighed, then crossed the room to speak with Maria.

"Mal..." Altaïr shook his head, frowning deeply. "I'm sorry-"

"Why are _you_ apologizing?" Malik frowned at Altaïr. "I thought we were past your constant apologies." He sat down on the stool behind the drum controller. "In any case, I was never terribly good at video games."

A smirk crossed Altaïr's face. "You're badass at Tetris."

Malik frowned and let Altaïr's comment go without retort. He slid a finger over the rim of the green drum head, letting his eyes wander over the controller for lack of anything more interesting to look at. He tilted his head after a moment, curiously. "Do _these_ work?"

"What?" Altaïr leaned over Malik's shoulder to look at the four buttons on the controller, arranged in a diamond.

"I was not talking to you. Leonardo, do these work?" Malik looked over his shoulder at Leonardo, who was engrossed in a conversation with Maria about a new commission.

Leonardo turned back toward him from his spot beside the family portrait. "_Ah_... honey, what are they?"

"I can't see any reason they wouldn't," Altaïr volunteered. "Haven't _tried_ it, but it's the same idea."

Malik touched the shiny buttons with a fingertip as a small smile formed on his face. "I suppose I could try this." He chuckled. "I will be the _worst_ drummer."

Altaïr smiled. "The only thing is, uh... the buttons aren't arranged like the drum heads."

"Then it will be a _challenge_," said Malik with a smile. "You are well aware that I like challenges."

Ezio thudded down the stairs and entered the den with Petruccio trailing behind him. "Are we playing? No one be Sharkey. I want to be Sharkey," said Ezio.

Altaïr laughed. "No, no one's Sharkey yet." He smiled at Petruccio, picking up one of the guitar controllers and putting the strap over his shoulder. "Hey, kiddo. What do you want to play?"

"I'll watch for a while," said Petruccio. "If that's alright."

Ezio picked up the other guitar. "You sure?" he asked. "You can play guitar if you like."

"I'm okay, thank you," Petruccio insisted. He looked over his shoulder. "Leo, are you going to play?"

Leonardo's ears seemed to perk slightly. "_Oh_... yes, honey... I will be right there, give me a moment!" he said, before Maria shooed him away toward the projector screen, smiling sweetly. "It's too bad Desmond couldn't join us... he had to work tonight."

"Don't feel bad for him. He's getting a lot of attention, I bet," Altaïr laughed.


	82. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXXII

Desmond settled back on a stool behind the bar, staring out at the glossy wooden dance floor, scuffed by thousands of shoes but polished to a high shine.

He enjoyed leaving the darkness of his lonely little apartment, enjoyed being near other people- particularly when there were no creepy old men hanging around the bar- but there was a dark cloud of boredom hanging over his head.

With a glance toward the bouncer, he cleared his throat. "Bartolomeo, distract me," he said. "You have a lot of interesting stories. What's going on in your life?"

Bartolomeo rested his bulky arms on the bar. "I got paid," he said with a laugh.

"That's all well and good, but I did too." Desmond frowned. "Anything better? I leave myself at your mercy."

Sitting on the tall chair beside the bar, Bartolomeo chewed his lip. "Well, uh... I met someone," he said.

Desmond nodded. "_Now_ you're thinking. Who was it?"

Bartolomeo chuckled. "Well, by _met_, I mean _saw at a stoplight_." He grinned. "Guy was hardcore. Nice bike, looked new. He had an eyepatch._ Unf_."

"Wait. Eyepatch on a motorcycle?" Desmond frowned. "Seems _safe_. Was he wearing a helmet?"

"_Nah_." Bartolomeo cracked a huge grin that nearly struck terror into Desmond's heart. "Told you he was hardcore." He laced his fingers behind his head and stretched his massive shoulders and chest. "I wanted to race him but I was on the wrong side, he couldn't see me."

Desmond rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "You want his nuts, don't you?"

Bartolomeo grinned. "Well, _yeah_." With a chuckle, he added "_in my mouth_."

Frowning, Desmond stood and turned to idly polish a glass. "That's more than I needed to know, thanks," he said.

"It's better than I can say for you," Bartolomeo said. "How long's it been since you got laid?"

Desmond sighed. "I don't think I want to talk about this," he said.

Bartolomeo shook his head. "Humor me, Desmond." He looked at the clock. "We're here for a _while_, so if you need to count the years on more than one hand-"

"_Jesus_," Desmond groused, "it's only been a few days, thanks." He stretched his back. "Anyway, what makes it your business?

"You're uptight," Bartolomeo said. "What's going on?"

Desmond shook his head. "It's really stupid. I, uh... does it ever happen to you, where you can't get your mind off of someone? Even when you don't know them?"

Bartolomeo laughed. "All the time, my boy."

After a pause, Desmond sat back down on the stool behind the bar, frowning into the pint glass in his hand. "Even when you, uh... even when you know them well enough to know they're a dick?"


	83. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXXIII

Malik stared up at the screen, bemused. Using the small, round buttons on the controller had proved surprisingly difficult; their arrangement was such that he had ended up rotating the drum kit awkwardly.

Altaïr shifted the guitar on his shoulder. "Uh... how's it going with the buttons, Mal?"

"It is difficult," Malik replied. He smiled and picked up the bottle of beer at his feet and took a drink. "But I have never done this before. Whereas your, ah, _skills_... seem to be suffering."

Frowning, Altaïr stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles. "Yeah, well... it's been a while, okay?"

He hated to think of how long it had been. He remembered packing up Kadar's Xbox and controllers when they moved out of their expensive apartment, putting all of his things in storage as soon as he could function after the incident. Neither he nor Malik had spoken of the boxed items stashed away on a high shelf in a closet since they'd been put there, or indeed, at all.

"Of course it has," Malik said quietly. He took another drink before setting the beer bottle down, then coughed into his hand, announcing a change of subject. Altaïr did not argue. "The difficulty, of course," he began, his voice light, "is with the arrangement of the drum heads, as opposed to the arrangement of the buttons."

Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Petruccio got up from his seat on the couch. He touched Malik's shoulder gently. "I-"

"_Oh_... I apologize. Would you like to play?" Malik gave Petruccio a gentle smile and gathered his feet beneath himself to stand.

Petruccio shook his head. "No... well, _yes_, but I have an idea." He pulled a second stool over and sat at Malik's left side, smiling up at him. "I'll do the left hand stuff if you'll do the right hand stuff... deal?"

Malik's expression faltered momentarily as he considered the proposition, then grew to a pleased smile. "Alright," he said.

"Okay. But you have to do the foot pedal."


	84. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXXIV

It was past midnight and Petruccio had gone to bed. Federico was drumming as Malik nursed a second beer on the couch. Leonardo had just finished singing _Nine in the Afternoon_ and the score screen presented itself in hundred-inch glory.

"_Ha_! Hundred percent. Eat that, ninety-seven." Ezio smiled triumphantly, pointing at his score.

Altaïr looked up at Ezio, frowned, and displayed his left hand. "But I only have _three quarters_ of the equipment," he said curtly.

Ezio looked down at his own left hand, wrapped around the plastic neck of the Fender guitar controller, and frowned. "Er... _sorry_," he replied after a moment.

Sitting down on one of the chairs up against the wall, Altaïr shook his head. "_Nah_, what you've got to say is that guitar's harder than bass." He grinned up at Ezio. "You've got to toughen up a little, kiddo. Insults roll off of me like water."

"You are a cheating whore," said Malik, and Altaïr looked over at him, his brows knitting with a frown. Malik smiled mischievously. "Insults roll off of you like water?" He chuckled.

Altaïr opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again instead, frowning in disapproval.

Federico yawned. "_Ugh_. I've got to go to bed," he said, looking at the clock. "I have to go with dad tomorrow morning. Pipsqueak's got a doctor's appointment." He stretched his back and it made a few spare crackling sounds.

Ezio stuck out his lower lip petulantly. "What's the matter? Are you getting too old to stay up late?"

"_Hardly_..." Federico grunted, standing. "I was at work until six this morning, then had to get up to go visit Mario. Anyway... I'll see you kids in the morning, I guess."

"Okay." Ezio patted Federico's shoulder affectionately. "See you in the morning."

Federico chuckled. "Well, _maybe_. If you guys don't spend the whole day in bed tomorrow."

Leonardo smiled. "Honey, I would hardly worry about _that_. We have breakfast reservations."


	85. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXXV

Altaïr sat on the edge of the bed in the Auditore guest room and pulled his T-shirt off over his head. His shoulders and left wrist ached from the stress put on them by the controller. Stretching his neck, he tossed his shirt into a chair and shuffled his feet on the carpet beneath the bed.

"Did you have fun?" asked Malik, pulling the door shut behind himself. He unfastened his belt.

Nodding, Altaïr massaged his wrist. He looked at the inside of his elbow and scowled at the slight bruising there. "Yeah. Did you?"

Malik smiled, unbuttoning his shirt. "Yes. The, ah... the buttons. They were a stupid idea." He laughed quietly, letting his shirt hang open as he stretched. "I am glad not to have done that for very long."

"That kid really likes you," Altaïr observed, mouthing his lower lip, letting his teeth graze lightly over it as his eyes flickered over Malik's chest, taking in the gentle curves of his muscles, relearning the sparse distribution of small scars, some thicker than others, beneath dark hair. He smiled slightly, wanting to reach out but almost afraid to do so.

Malik nodded. "He is a very polite child," he replied as he let his shirt drop from his shoulders. He caught it by the collar and hung it over the back of a chair, smiling. "I... I had fun. He is a very good left hand."

Altaïr laughed, gripping the denim of his jeans. "I haven't seen you smile like that in-"

"A very long time," Malik said, approaching Altaïr and taking his chin in his hand. "I did not know I would be able to." He searched Altaïr's eyes, studying the sincerity and nervousness therein. "Your knuckles are white," he added, looking down at Altaïr's hands, clenched tight around the worn, torn fabric of his pants. "What is the matter?"

There was a short pause, and then a chuckle escaped Altaïr's lips. "I really want to touch you," he said.

Malik smirked slightly. "Why do you hesitate?"

Altaïr felt his cheeks warm and instantly his hands went to Malik's waist; there was a slight snap of static electricity and both of them frowned momentarily.

Malik touched Altaïr's hair and they looked at each other, then laughed quietly together; at this, Altaïr pulled Malik close and pressed a hot kiss to his skin, between his navel and the waistband of his jeans, and Malik's fingers, cool from holding a bottle of chilled beer, slid down the back of his neck.

Closing his eyes, Altaïr wrapped his arms around Malik's hips, resting his cheek against his ribcage. "I forgot you have dimples," he said softly, his breath ruffling the coarse hair that trailed down Malik's chest and stomach.

Malik chuckled and rested his hand on Altaïr's shoulder. "You never told me this," he said, stroking Altaïr's neck with his thumb.

"Mm." Altaïr smiled and slid a hand down the back of Malik's leg and up the front of his thigh, then hooking a finger into the pocket of his jeans. "Do you want to get in bed?" he asked, unfastening Malik's jeans with his free hand, then sliding them down and kissing Malik's hipbone through dark green briefs.

Nodding, Malik sat beside Altaïr on the bed and traced his fingertips in the hollows amidst Altaïr's thick, defined abdominal muscles, standing out starkly on his slim frame. "You are thin," he said.

Altaïr laughed quietly. "I always have been."

"I know you have," Malik replied and quickly covered Altaïr's mouth with his own, kissing him firmly.

Altaïr's fingers curled at Malik's sides; he slid his thumbs along his ribs, closing his eyes as Malik's hand grasped the back of his neck. Malik's mouth tasted of beer and his lips were stained faintly red from rich tomato sauce. He flicked his tongue against Malik's lower lip and grunted softly as, with the slightest of wet sounds, Malik pulled back to smile at him.

"I think," he said in a low growl, "you should take off your jeans."


	86. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXXVI

Altaïr flushed at the command and nodded, unfastening his pants and shucking them off as Malik watched. He swallowed, letting his gaze flicker down Malik's torso; with little thought he palmed him through his briefs and relished the quiet, halting gasp that this elicited.

Malik shifted backward to the middle of the bed, his movement slightly ungainly; a frown flitted over his face but faded quickly as Altaïr leaned close to kiss the base of his neck. He tilted his head to the side and licked his lips, closing his eyes and leaning back on his hand, letting a low groan bleed from his lips.

"I want you," Altaïr whispered against the corner of Malik's jaw, breathing against his skin, pressing his weight into him. He covered Malik's hand with his own and bit down at the base of his neck, leaning ever closer.

It seemed to happen in slow motion, and yet entirely too quickly, that Malik's hand slid out from under him on the soft bed sheets, taking Altaïr's with it; they toppled back to the sheets in a tangle of awkward limbs and narrowly avoided bumping heads.

For a tense moment Altaïr looked up at Malik, and Malik returned the gaze, and suddenly it was too much and he covered his face with his hand, laughing. "You look _so nervous_," he said. "You never looked so nervous when- _uh_!"

Altaïr bit down at the base of Malik's neck and, distracted from his amusement, Malik pawed at Altaïr's shoulder, then grabbed the back of his head to pull him in for a hard kiss. He arched his body toward the rough hand sliding down his side and grunted against Altaïr's lips when it stilled; the fingers curled to grasp his hip.

"Mal... _baby_, what do you want?" Altaïr fit himself against Malik's side, holding him possessively and looking into his eyes with a nervous smile.

His voice came out softer, more gently, than he'd realized; Malik's expression shifted quickly to something fiercer, the edges of white teeth showing between parted lips, dark brows furrowed and darker eyes narrowed, not really angry but somehow vicious. "To start with, stop calling me _baby_," he snarled. "Once you have done that, I want you to _fuck me_."

With a quiet, breathless moan, Altaïr nodded, shifting between Malik's legs. He braced his left arm at Malik's side and tangled his fingers in coarse hair, leaning up to kiss him hotly.

Malik bit at Altaïr's lips, bracing his heels on the bed and arching up; he gripped the back of Altaïr's head, fingers catching his short hair and pulling roughly. Altaïr ducked his head against Malik's neck and groaned, his voice thick with arousal. "_Get to it_," Malik growled.

Altaïr sat up between Malik's legs and hooked his fingers in the waistband of tight green briefs. He pulled them down and Malik shifted to allow him to pull them off.

"You're... _so god damned hot_, Mal." Altaïr's shoulders shook with a breathy laugh and he slid his hands down Malik's inner thighs, licking his lower lip and smiling. He paused and suddenly frowned, then closed his eyes. "_Uh_... I'm not sure we can... I mean, I could ask Leo and Ezio but I don't have any, um..."

Malik laughed at him, curling his hand over his eyes. He let out a shaky breath, suddenly feeling slightly nervous, then pushed himself up on his elbow and moved further toward the center of the bed. "I do," he said, watching Altaïr's eyes. "In... in the pocket of my jeans."

Altaïr nodded and turned, picking up Malik's jeans from the floor. He fumbled hurriedly in the pocket and pulled out a small handful of little plastic packets. His cheeks flushed as he set them on the bed to sort through them. "I, um-"

"Do not make a _mess_ of us," Malik said, holding himself up on his elbow. "But do not be stingy; after all, it has been over a year since..." He looked away from Altaïr's eyes to stare at the comforter.

"Uh... yeah, of course." Altaïr opened one of the tiny packages and coated the index and middle fingers of his left hand; he leaned down to kiss Malik's knee, positioning his forefinger carefully. "C-can I?"

Malik laughed, though it came out as little more than a breathy grunt. He lay back on the bed and arched his hips. "_Do it_," he growled, then hissed through his teeth as he felt Altaïr's forefinger enter him. He closed his eyes and groaned softly.

Swallowing hard, Altaïr curled his finger upward and relished Malik's soft gasps.

"_Uh_... Altaïr," Malik whispered, swallowing hard. His hips twitched gently upward as white light danced in his vision, and he grasped the comforter, panting. He opened his eyes to look at Altaïr. "Y-you will not _break_ me."

Altaïr nodded and slid his forefinger out, watching Malik's eyes as he lined his middle finger up beside it. "Ready?"

Malik grunted, gripping the covers tightly. "_Shut up_," he snarled, wrapping his leg around Altaïr's hips and pulling him closer. The tips of Altaïr's fingers penetrated him and he gasped, gritting his teeth. "_Shut up and do it_."

Groaning softly, Altaïr thrust his fingers deep; Malik's hips jerked and a harsh cry tore from his throat as he arched his back, hugging Altaïr with his leg and panting roughly. "Are you okay?" Altaïr asked, stilling his hand, his fingers buried as he watched Malik's forehead crease with a pained frown.

"You _know_ what to do, do not play _stupid_," Malik snapped. A low moan escaped him as Altaïr's fingers slid slowly out and back in, gently spreading him, preparing him. "I... I am sorry," he added after a moment, and the fingers curled and left him grunting helplessly in pleasure as his head swam, the world seeming to dissolve into bright light and the hazy sounds of desperate panting.

With his free hand, Altaïr pushed his own briefs down, grunting in relief. He shoved them down his thighs and squirmed out of them, then tilted his head upward to look into Malik's eyes, half-lidded and dark with need. His full lips were parted in a silent, continuous moan as the pads of Altaïr's fingers massaged his prostate. "I... I'm not sure how much longer I can wait," Altaïr said apologetically.

Malik swallowed and nodded, trying to push away the nagging nervousness that seemed to fill him once again. A swift twist of fingers inside him made him cry out softly, and then he whined at sudden emptiness.

His leg fell to the side, pushed from Altaïr's waist as the older man moved slightly away from him. He watched Altaïr open a small foil package and felt his cheeks heat slightly, and then the few slick sounds that followed made him shudder with slightly awkward laughter.

Altaïr licked his lower lip, positioning his wide-spread knees beneath Malik's thighs, sitting up between his legs. His left hand grasped Malik's hip. "I'm going to do it," he whispered, shifting closer.

"Do it," Malik breathed, looking up into Altaïr's golden eyes and arching his hips. He felt the sudden sting of penetration and grimaced. "_Ah_... f-fuck." His hand curled in a tight fist, fingernails digging deep into his palm, and he shook his head. "_Hurts_."

Panting roughly, Altaïr wrapped his arm around Malik's leg and kissed his inner thigh, his breath falling hot on soft skin. "I'm sorry." He curled the fingers of his left hand around Malik's cock and stroked him gently, smiling when he felt Malik's body relax slightly beneath him. "You're _so hot_," he said, and stopped himself from letting the word _baby_ follow the sentiment.

Malik smiled breathlessly at him, closing his eyes and nodding. "I... I think it is okay now," he whispered and lifted his legs to pull Altaïr closer.

Altaïr chuckled, leaning on his right hand and sliding slowly deeper, relishing the heat and tightness, foreign after over a year but _good_. He bit back a wanton moan and instead shuddered with a harsh, heavy sigh, angling upward.

Malik gasped dizzily and sank his fingernails into Altaïr's shoulder, pulling him down and kissing him violently as his hips rolled involuntarily upward to meet gentle, careful thrusts. He moaned into Altaïr's mouth and their teeth clicked together as Altaïr started fucking him. Malik wrapped his legs around Altaïr's slim hips and he let out a slightly pained grunt, and suddenly Altaïr's hand was between their bodies again, fisting Malik's erection and stroking him as the other hand tangled in coarse, dark hair at the back of Malik's head.

Altaïr pulled his lips back and rested his forehead against Malik's, staring into his eyes blearily. "_God_," he choked out, his breathing harsh and hard against the younger man's dark lips. "Mal... f-_fuck_, you feel..."

"_Tight_," Malik panted, and there was a hint of a laugh in his voice as he arched his back and moaned. "I... I _know_, you do not have to... _tell me_..." His hand slid down Altaïr's back and gripped at his ribcage, and he grunted in pleasure. "_Altaïr_..."

With a strangled groan, Altaïr gripped Malik's hair, ducking his head against the sweat-slick warmth of his shoulder. "_Unh_... n-not... oh god, oh _Mal_, when you say my name..."

"_Altaïr, fuck me_," Malik groaned, urging him on, gasping in pain and pleasure when Altaïr's hips jerked harshly. He felt the movement of Altaïr's lips against his shoulder, mouthing voiceless words intermingled with sharp breaths and quiet moans; Altaïr's fingers coiled tighter in sweaty hair and he clenched his teeth, working his left hand faster in time with quick thrusts.

Malik pulled Altaïr upward with his legs, shifting the angle and fitting their bodies together; he watched as golden eyes squeezed shut in pleasure and tried to keep his own open. "I'm close," Altaïr hissed.

"Y-yes... I am, as well..." Malik gasped, tilting his head back as Altaïr's tongue flicked in the hollow of his throat. Sharp fingernails dug roughly into Altaïr's back as his body trembled involuntarily; gritting his teeth and bucking upward, he came hard, crying out and pulling Altaïr closer and deeper as he followed quickly.

Altaïr moaned dizzily as he rode out the trembling and shuddering of climax, his breathing halting and stilted; Malik's fingernails were still firmly gripping his back and the pain brought him back to reality quickly. He hissed through his teeth, squirming atop him, and Malik groaned, loosening his grip.

Cold air stung aching crescents on Altaïr's back and he grimaced, then sighed pleasurably at a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"_That_..." Malik chuckled, staring at the ceiling and hugging Altaïr with his legs. "That was... _good_."

Altaïr chuckled. "Only _good_?" he asked, and his voice broke. He rested his temple on Malik's collarbone and was unsurprised when he received a light smack to the back of his head. "Alright, alright."

"It was _very_ good," Malik said, closing his eyes and sighing out a breath into Altaïr's hair. "I have missed... I have missed you." He grunted in displeasure as Altaïr shifted, getting to his knees and sliding out carefully. "_Ah_... ha." He chuckled, looking away as Altaïr cleaned them both up.

"Can't even begin..." Altaïr laughed quietly. "Ah... pillows?" He gestured toward the head of the be. Malik nodded, grinning; the corners of his eyes crinkled and the tiny depressions showed in his full cheeks, and Altaïr bit down on his lower lip. "You are, _ha_... fucking _breathtaking_."

Malik rolled his eyes, though he couldn't remove the smile from his face. He shifted onto his side and groaned at the stiffness in his back, then crawled to the head of the bed and pulled the duvet down, unwrapping the pillows from it.

Altaïr rubbed the back of his neck and smiled, turning to settle himself under the covers, but Malik stopped him. "_Ah_... Altaïr, your back," he said.

"What about it?" Altaïr tried to look over his shoulder, but couldn't find what Malik saw.

Malik touched Altaïr's back and showed him the blood on his fingertips. "I apologize," he said, but Altaïr shook his head.

"You've always got to be in charge," said Altaïr with a grin. "Always got to be the boss."

Chuckling, Malik moved to face Altaïr. "Naturally." He paused, reaching to rub his thumb along Altaïr's cheekbone. "There are some bandages in the bag," he said with a slight smirk. "I think I can help you with them."


	87. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXXVII

Malik shifted beneath the thick duvet, covering his eyes with his hand. He stretched his back and groaned, then turned on his side and hissed through his teeth at a slight pang of soreness.

Half-asleep, he wrapped his arm around Altaïr's sleep-warm, naked body and settled his chest against Altaïr's scarred back. "Good morning," he said, his voice a low rumble in his ribcage. He could feel the fabric of bandages on warm skin and he wasn't sure whether to be pleased or embarrassed.

Altaïr murmured softly, tucking himself into the warmth of the embrace. He yawned and burrowed his face into the pillow. "Morning, Mal," he mumbled.

"You are an _asshole_," Malik chuckled, finding Altaïr's hand with his own and holding it. "I am _sore_."

With a laugh, Altaïr held Malik's hand against his chest. "I'm sorry," he said.

Malik nipped the back of Altaïr's neck. "Do not apologize," he reprimanded irritably. "Did I or did I not ask for it?"

"Y-_yeah_," Altaïr said, cowed, yet somehow excited, by the authority in Malik's voice. He'd almost forgotten the strange thrill he got from feeling a sense of _ownership_ that Malik had placed upon his shoulders like a yoke; he'd never minded, even when they were young, because it had always seemed completely appropriate. He felt the muscular arm tighten around his ribcage and relaxed slightly, nestling his slim body against Malik's and sighing pleasurably.

"Then we are alright," Malik said. He nuzzled Altaïr's shoulder and pressed his lips against the bite scar, dragging rough stubble along Altaïr's back, then chuckled, smirking against soft, warm skin, and slid his leg between Altaïr's.

Altaïr attempted to look over his shoulder, but the angle failed him. He returned his head to the pillow. "What are you laughing at?" he asked.

"I suppose," Malik reflected quietly, his voice little more than a murmur, "that we are once again lovers." He smiled, resting his cheek against Altaïr's shoulder, looking up toward the ceiling.

Altaïr felt his mouth become dry, felt his cheeks flush. He laughed nervously and closed his eyes, cursing the sudden harder thumping of his heart. "I... I guess so," he said softly.

The word _lover _had always seemed to carry a strange implication, one for which Altaïr wasn't sure he cared particularly. He wasn't sure if it was intentional, or if he should chalk it up to Malik's occasionally-awkward English. Either way, he disliked the word and the connotations it carried, of indecency and illicit activity.

The strength of his annoyance frankly surprised him. He found the word quite repellent, but found a dearth of alternate ideas, and the few words he did pull from the haze in his mind seemed presumptuous.

Malik covered Altaïr's heart with his hand, then curled his fingers gently in the light smattering of hair on Altaïr's muscular chest. "Does this displease you?"

Another nervous laugh vibrated Altaïr's ribcage. "_No_," he said, shifting awkwardly, squeezing shut his eyes and pushing away the anxiety that bore down on him. "N-not really... it's just... we never put a name on it before."

"_Ha_... we are older now," Malik observed. He smiled against the back of Altaïr's neck, stroking his chest. "Perhaps we should better consider the implications of our actions."


	88. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXXVIII

The inside of the sunshine-yellow Volkswagen Beetle smelled like very little. Altaïr noted that it seemed almost suspiciously unscented and frowned as he climbed into the back seat beside Malik. The seat clicked down in front of him and he threw a glance at Malik, who smiled, scratched his nose, and looked away.

Ezio sat in the passenger's seat and Leonardo in the driver's seat, and the car backed out of the drive.

"Did you, ah... did you sleep well?" asked Leonardo with a slight chuckle, and Ezio nudged his thigh.

Malik rolled his eyes. "Yes, actually. Very well." He smirked and looked in Altaïr's direction. "Would you not say so?"

"Nice bed," Altaïr said awkwardly, trying to ignore the compulsion to reach for Malik's thigh. He stared out the window. "It's, uh... it's big." As he shifted in his seat he felt the adhesive of the bandages tugging lightly on his skin.

Ezio rolled down his window and rested his elbow on the windowframe. "Lucky," he said. "We spent the night in my old twin bed-"

"On top of each other," Leonardo interrupted, and Ezio frowned at him. "_What_? You have a broad chest! It makes an _excellent_ pillow."

"That will do, _thank you_, Leo," said Ezio, and his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and smiled, returning his elbow to the windowframe and replying to the text message that had arrived.

Leonardo frowned as he turned onto the main street. "Be careful, honey," he warned. "I am sure you would not want to drop your phone."

Ezio sighed. "I _know_, Leo. Jeez." He turned the radio on and closed his eyes, holding his phone in his curled hand outside the window and leaning back into the seat.

Altaïr chuckled and slid his hand across the seat to brush Malik's thigh with his knuckles; it earned him little more than a smirk that bore the promise of a kick in the shins, but Malik shifted subtly closer to the gentle touch, studiously examining the folds at the knees of his dark Calvin Klein jeans.

Leonardo pulled up to a red light and smiled at the motorcyclist that stopped on the passenger's side of the car; the motorcyclist smiled back, faintly, and returned his attention to the body of his bike.

The light turned green and Leonardo hit the gas; Ezio turned up the volume, then suddenly jerked and yelped as the motorcyclist buzzed the side of the car and with a leather-gloved hand, sharply struck his wrist.

The cell phone tumbled from his hand onto the pavement and the battery cover and battery split from the phone. Ezio swore, pulling his hand into the car and rubbing the reddening mark on his wrist as he watched the cell phone crush under the wheel of a pickup truck. "_Asshole_!" he shouted out the window.

"What the _fuck_ just happened?" Altaïr asked, turning in his seat to look out the back window as the motorcyclist slowed and turned off onto a side street.

"I... I don't know!" Ezio scrabbled at the door, sticking his head out the window to look for the biker.

Leonardo looked at him, bewildered. "_Honey_, I told you to be _careful_!" he said. "Sit down, honey, we will get you a- _sit down_, Ezio!"

Ezio had pushed his head and shoulders out of the window. After a moment, he slumped back into his seat and sighed heavily. "That was _stupid_," he huffed.

Malik shifted in his seat. "It seemed very _purposeful_," he said with a frown. "Or perhaps it is that he has something against your particular brand of telephone."

Turning in his seat to scowl at Malik, Ezio pushed wind-tangled hair from his eyes. "You know _what_," he hissed, then stopped abruptly at the sight of a ferocious glower from Altaïr.

"Leo's right, Ezio," said the mechanic, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You should be more careful."


	89. La Vendetta degli Amanti LXXXIX

"Well... you have _yours_, right?" Ezio asked with some small measure of dismay.

Leonardo nodded. "Yes," he said, taking his phone from his pocket, and then frowning. "Oh, but _honey_... it is out of battery." He sighed. "_Mi dispiace_. But it will be okay!"

Ezio sighed and pulled open the door of the small restaurant.

The waitress, a chipper girl with dreadlocks pulled back into a thick ponytail, approached them. "Hi, folks... four of you today?"

Leonardo shook his head. "Ah, no... there will be five, there is another on the way."

The girl nodded and took them to a booth in the back of the restaurant with wooden benches and chairs and lay the menus out on the table. "I'll be back soon to take your drink orders," she said with a smile.

"Thanks," said Ezio, sitting down and resting his forearms on the table, deflated. He closed his eyes and shuffled his foot on the floor, looking up at Altaïr as he sat across the table.

"It'll be okay, kid," said Altaïr. "You're a nasty little rich kid, remember? Your parents'll get you a new phone." After a second or two he yelped and scowled at Malik as he lifted his leg to rub his shin.

Ezio was about to reply when Leonardo squeaked and threw himself onto his feet to run and hug Desmond.

Desmond laughed. "_Oof_... hey, Leo. Did you guys have fun last night?" he asked, hugging Leonardo, then taking a seat at the end of the table.

"Yeah... you missed it. Ezio kicked my ass at guitar because he's got an unfair advantage," said Altaïr with a grin.

"_Man_..." Desmond grinned. "That's not fair." He looked at Ezio and frowned. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

Ezio sighed. "You wouldn't believe it. Asshole biker knocked my phone out of my hand on the way here." He rested his head on his arms.

Desmond touched Ezio's shoulder. "Man, that sucks. I'm sorry."

Shaking Desmond's hand off, Ezio sat up and opened his menu. He stared at the text, though there seemed to be little meaning in it.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he should somehow contact his family. The relief he had seen on his father's face had been striking, but he wondered if perhaps it had been put on. He lowered his menu to the table, then elbowed the napkin-wrapped silverware off of the edge of the table.

He bent to retrieve it and concentrated; the world shifted into shades of blue-grey and he looked under the table at the legs of his companions. Eight distinct shapes glowed the same friendly blue, putting Ezio at ease. He blinked a few times and his vision reverted to normal as he sat up.

Leonardo looked at Desmond appraisingly. "I have been wondering something," he said, tilting his head to the side. Ezio knew that particular head-tilt; it meant that Leonardo's brain had kicked into artistic mode and he was liable to do strange things.

Indeed, Leonardo reached across the table and with his middle finger traced the scar over Desmond's lips. Desmond did not jerk away, but he watched Leonardo's hand warily. "Ah... my ex-girlfriend threw a cat at me," he said.

Leonardo frowned. "This is so _cruel_, why would she do this?"

"W-_well_, there was really no _throwing_. Cat just... really didn't like me." Desmond laughed. "Mean little guy. Anyway it scratched the hell out of me and got me good in the _face_, which... sucks." He paused. "I'd... I'd imagine, uh, that that's not where yours came from, Ezio," he said. "Or yours, Altaïr."

Altaïr snickered. "_Nah_... I, uh..." He exhaled quietly, looking at his menu. "I got mine in a knife fight." He bit down on his lower lip and his gaze flickered momentarily toward Malik, who gave him a gentle half-smile and slid his leg closer, resting their knees together. "Uh... where'd you get yours, Ezio?"

Ezio lifted his eyes. "It's pretty stupid. Probably stupider than Desmond's cat." He folded his menu and settled back in the chair. "This guy threw a rock at me when I was seventeen. It was dumb. He was like..." Smirking, he shook his head. "Like twenty-three or something."

Malik frowned. "He sounds like an asshole."


	90. La Vendetta degli Amanti XC

Giovanni frowned as he heard Federico's phone start to ring in the pocket of his jacket, left with him in the waiting room. Petruccio had asked that his older brother accompany him into the office instead of his father, and thus Giovanni found himself sitting in an uncomfortable chair with a stack of old magazines at his side and his sons' jackets on his lap.

He pulled the phone out of the pocket and considered the number, a local one he didn't recognize; he nearly answered it, but was cowed by the receptionist's icy glare and instead hit the button on the side of the phone to silence the ring. He rested his ankle on his knee and absently watched a van pull into the parking lot and idle in a spot.

Rubbing an aching shoulder, he fished in his own pocket, but found nothing; with a frown, he dug in the other pockets of his slacks and jacket and could not find his own cell phone. It occurred to him after a time that he had left it on the desk in his office to charge.

It worried him little. It was rare that he would receive a call on the weekend, and he could always stop to pick his phone up if he needed to. He occupied himself with reading a _Sports Illustrated_ and feigning interest in it.

The door swung open after a few minutes and Petruccio entered the waiting room, looking relatively chipper. Federico, too, looked quite pleased with himself as he got a smile from a pretty doctor's assistant.

Giovanni stood and went to the receptionist's window to pay the bill, and Petruccio took the car keys from his back pocket, then headed out the door toward the car.

Federico turned to speak to him but he was already out the door; the cute assistant smiled at him once again from behind the counter and hurried away, and he leaned an elbow on the counter, grinning at the ceiling.

"Your phone rang," said Giovanni, handing Federico the jackets. "I didn't recognize the caller." He pocketed his wallet and took the receipt from the receptionist, neatly folding it before tucking it in his own jacket pocket.

"Oh yeah?" Federico pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. A voicemail had come in. He called the inbox and put the phone to his ear as they started toward the car.

"_Where's_... oh, never mind..." Frowning in bewilderment, Giovanni pulled himself up onto a cement cylinder surrounding a light pole. "Petruccio?" he called, to no response. He heard the sounds of a scuffle from somewhere a few rows away; his vision shifted and he saw an outcropping of glowing red figures near the van he'd seen, wrestling a smaller blue figure along. He felt his heartbeat quicken, felt sudden dryness in his mouth; he took a breath and jumped onto the hood of a nearby car and then to the roof, then from that roof to the next toward the van.

Federico entered the access code for his voicemail and Ezio's voice came through the speaker. "_Hey, big brother_... _it's Ezio. I lost my phone_." There was a quiet mumble in the background and then an exasperated sigh. "_Yeah, _okay_. It got run over. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure things are good with you guys. Give me a call-_"

There was a loud yelp from somewhere behind Federico, followed by the slamming of heavy metal doors and a harsh curse barked in a tone that he'd never heard from his father. Federico turned toward the cacophony to see a large burly man coming toward him. His breath hitched in his chest in surprise and he took a step back, bewildered, but the man grabbed the phone from his hand and bent it backward, snapping it in two, then threw it on the ground.

"Petie!" Federico turned away from the big man, gauging how quickly he could run for it. His legs seemed to take a moment to work; as such, he ducked under the grasp of massive arms and turned around quickly to run past the man. "Petie, where are you?... Dad? _Dad_?"

"Over here!" Giovanni shouted, banging on the tinted back window of the van. His voice was hoarse and tense. "Petruccio!"

Petruccio had been thrown in the back of the van; he held Giovanni's keys tightly in his hand, banging on the window in response. Giovanni could hear him calling "_dad_!" from inside the van.

"_Hey_... Theo! You got the little bastard!" Giovanni turned from the back of the van to see two thugs coming at them, dressed in black with ski masks. The voice had come from the smaller of the two, who wore black jeans tucked into thick-soled, steel-toed leather boots. "Nicely done!"

Giovanni looked in the tinted window again briefly; his youngest son was curled in the back of the van with shaking hands clamped tightly around keys and his inhaler. "What... _what_ is this about?" he demanded, conjuring up all the authority that he could.

Federico pressed his face against the dirty glass. There were at least two other heavies in the car, and the doors were locked, rebar piping shoved through the handles and across the frames. He felt his heart sink as he watched Petruccio carefully take a dose from the inhaler and pocket it, then cough against his arm. Tears were streaming down the boy's face.

"Emilio Zaccardi sends his greetings," said the shorter man, "via me and Stephan here." He gestured to the second thug. "Giovanni Auditore... you'd better be ready to drive."


	91. La Vendetta degli Amanti XCI

"Hey, look at that," Altaïr offered as they walked toward the car. He nudged Ezio's elbow and pointed toward a young man on the street corner who was juggling bowling pins. "Okay, now think of them as _dildos_."

Malik dragged Altaïr backward by his belt loop. "Leave him _alone_, Altaïr."

Ezio sighed. "It wouldn't be _that_ big of a deal if my dad hadn't been so stressed out for the past week. It's just... it's just _weird_..." He rubbed his face. "And I mean... Federico _always_ answers his phone."

Leonardo pawed gently at Ezio's arm. "_Honey_, remember that there are no phones allowed in the doctor."

Desmond choked on his coffee and wiped his nose, coughing. "_Sorry_... sorry... not funny."

Leonardo scowled briefly over his shoulder, clicking his tongue. "_Basta_!" he groused.

Altaïr snickered. "What did you call him?"

Mumbling a few choice obscenities under his breath in Italian, Leonardo put his arm around Ezio's back. "It will be okay, honey. Just... just-"

"_Believe in myself_?" Ezio scoffed. "Dream big? _What_, Leo?"

"Just _relax_," Leonardo hissed.

There was an odd clunky jangling sound behind them; Altaïr turned such that he was walking backward, and frowned.

Behind them was a tall man in his late twenties, wearing an Insane Clown Posse jersey and carrying a beer can on a string of silver plastic beads. Inside the beer can were several handfuls of coins, clanking as he walked. Beside him was a younger male dressed in black, holding a brightly colored pacifier in his mouth. "Hey man," said the one carrying the can, "can you give me a quarter?"

Altaïr frowned. "Nah, don't have one, sorry," he said.

"Oh... that's cool. Thanks anyway." The man turned away, heading toward a gaggle of teenagers hanging out around a small tree.

Malik frowned. "You might have better luck if your begging cup did not look like a tool for bludgeoning," he said under his breath.

Desmond chuckled. "Well, _someone's_ giving him money."

Clearing his throat, Leonardo nudged Ezio around a corner. "_Anyway_, honey, I am sure that when we get to your house-"

"_Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy_," sang a squeaky-voiced teen with a ukulele, jogging out in front of Ezio. "_Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry_..."

Ezio scowled and briefly considered landing a punch in the singer's face. Instead, he shoved his hand into his pocket and drew out a handful of change, which he threw at him. He heard a few of the coins land inside the body of the instrument. "_Shoo_!"

"Thank you!" said the busker, and Ezio sighed, passing him by.

"_Hey_, check it out!" said the man with the beer can from somewhere behind them. "Coins!"

"Money!" shouted another person.

Ezio sighed. He heard the busker shaking his ukulele and finally a hollow wooden clunk as it hit the ground. "_Why_ does this always happen to me?"

Leonardo giggled. "They are drawn to you. You have... _charisma_." He smiled, taking Ezio's hand and squeezing it.

"_Ezio_. How nice to see you." The voice came from somewhere above; Ezio looked up in time to see a man in tight jeans jumping down from a tree. He landed on the ground a few feet in front of Ezio, adjusting the fabric tubes he wore around his forearms.

Hurriedly, Ezio pulled his hand away from Leonardo's and reached out to push the other man away. "I'm really not in the mood, Vieri."

Vieri laughed, moving just out of Ezio's reach, walking backward in front of him. "Miss any calls, Auditore?" A smirk formed on his face, slightly baring his teeth; the silver rings on either side of his lower lip shifted as his expression shifted to a grin. "Oh, but _wait_..."

Ezio paused, scowling. "That was... _oh_." With a groan, he shook his head. "Real mature, Vieri." He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from punching him in his smug face. "Real _god damned_ mature."

Altaïr examined Vieri. He was a little shorter than Ezio, with black hair in dire need of washing under a black flatcap. His face was gaunt and his brown eyes framed with smeared eyeliner; he wore a tight T-shirt with purple and black stripes and a lightweight purple scarf around his neck. His clothes were clearly expensive; even the matching striped armwarmers had probably cost a ridiculous amount.

Malik grunted and tensed his hand at his side, then shot Altaïr a smirk. "Who is _this_ guy?" he asked. Altaïr knew from his tone that an odd sort of aggression was stirring inside him.

"This is Vieri," said Ezio shortly. "He was _just leaving_."

Laughing, Vieri shook his head. "I just got here. Had to check up on you... Kyle said he thought he might have hurt your wrist. We wouldn't want _that_, now, would we?" He looked at the scar over Ezio's lips. "Wouldn't want you hurt again."

"Will you _please_ go find a dick to suck?" Ezio grunted, advancing on Vieri and pushing him out of the way.

Vieri snickered, taking a step back and watching the group pass. "How _is_ your brother, anyway?" he called.

Ezio turned to respond, but Vieri was gone. He grimaced and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

"What a nasty little person," Leonardo hissed, folding his arms over his chest. "I am glad that you did not let him get to you, Ezio... it is stooping to his level."

"_Hey there, guy with the ponytail_... _who peed in your cornflakes this morning_?" asked a ventriloquist's dummy to some amelodic tune from a bench on the sidewalk. Ezio scowled in its general direction, and the ventriloquist holding it frowned and changed tack. "_Ah_... _hey, blond guy, you're rockin' that goatee_..."

Altaïr grunted. "I could've... nah. I _should've_ kicked his scrawny ass," he said. "He's looking for it, I think. Wonder where he left his tutu."

"He reminds me of high school," said Malik with a strange smile. "He would have been _fun_." He paused and chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "I could make _three of him_ cry."

Leonardo frowned over his shoulder. "That is a _horrible_ thing to say, Malik!"

Altaïr grinned, hooking a finger in Malik's belt loop. "Yeah. He's a monster."


	92. La Vendetta degli Amanti XCII

Over the static from a walkie-talkie phone, Giovanni could hear the thumping of his own heart.

"_Get him to step on it a little, would you_?" said a voice through the phone. "_We don't have all day_."

Stephan, who sat in the passenger's seat beside Giovanni, pulled a switchblade knife from his pocket and pressed the button. The blade swung out and snapped into place. "Step on it, alright, guy?"

Giovanni's fist clenched white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He depressed the gas pedal further, grunting under his breath.

In the back of the car sat Federico with his hands cuffed awkwardly behind him; the seatbelt stung as it rubbed against his neck. He swallowed hard, averting his eyes to stare out the window.

The speaker of the phone hissed. "_Hey, kid, don't cry_." There were a few crunching sounds. "_Here's a candy bar_."

There was a pause, and Petruccio's bewildered, slightly tearful voice came through the speaker. "_It's a _Snickers," he said. "_I can't eat peanuts_."

"_What's the matter with nuts_?" asked a separate voice. "_You can eat around them_."

"He's allergic!" said Giovanni, looking toward the phone in the cupholder. "He doesn't have his medicine!"

The thug Stephan grabbed his ponytail and turned his head back to the road. "_Watch_ where you're _going_!" he snarled.

Petruccio sighed in exasperation, a strange rattling sound carrying through the speaker. "_You don't understand_," he said. "_It'd kill me_." He paused briefly, and Giovanni could almost hear the gears ticking in his head. "_I don't think you want to kill me_."

There was a short silence. "_Well, _shit," one of the men on the other end said. "_Alright, princess, what _will_ you eat_?"

Petruccio's voice came through again, quietly. There was a hint of a smile in his tone. "_I have a list in my pocket. I can't have peanuts or dairy or shellfish_." He paused and sighed dramatically. "_My dad has an EpiPen in his car. I'm _supposed_ to have it with me at all times, but since_-"

"_Shut up, kid_."

"_But I'm _hungry," said Petruccio, perfectly taking on the whining tone of someone half his age.

The ratcheting of the emergency brake came through the speaker. "_We're here. Where are you guys_?"

"Coming around the corner," said Stephan. "Turn here, Auditore."

Giovanni took a turn and swallowed back bitter bile in his throat. He clenched his teeth and growled under his breath.

"Park." The thug pointed to an old white-walled building with a sign above the door, eighteen-inch letters reading _Frozen Food Center_.

It had been an old decrepit warehouse; it was now a badly-maintained apartment building. There was a light on in one of the windows on the upper floor, behind a broken plastic fan. A man dressed in black looked out past the fan and nodded.

Stephan opened the passenger side door of the car and met Giovanni at the driver's side. He opened the door for him, still brandishing the knife. The blade glittered in the late morning sun as it was pressed to Giovanni's ribcage. "Let's go," he said as the back door swung open. The second man got out of the back seat and went to open Federico's door.

Federico sighed as the thug reached across his chest to unfasten his seatbelt. He briefly entertained the thought of biting down on the nose that was only inches from his face, but thought better of it. He watched the hand retract as the seatbelt slid over his chest and pushed it off with his shoulder, then got out of the seat and stumbled against the car, unable to get his balance.

The door shut beside him and he was grabbed by the back of his neck and shoved forward.

"You got the kid, Shark?" asked Stephan, drawing Petruccio's EpiPen from the glove compartment of Giovanni's Mercedes-Benz.

The driver of the van leaned out the window and nodded. "Got the kid."

Theo dug his gloved fingers into Federico's neck and pushed him forward toward the door, which swung open to reveal another man in black, looking nervous. "Shark! Kid needs to come in first."

Swearing, the driver climbed into the back of the van. He grabbed Petruccio by the collar of his polo shirt and opened the doors, then dragged him out. Stephan threw him the EpiPen, which he caught in a gloved hand. "Alright, kid. Let's go," said Shark, twisting the collar a bit tighter around Petruccio's neck.

As he was guided into the old white-washed building, Petruccio looked at his father with a weak smile, trying to put on a brave face, but Giovanni couldn't meet his eyes. Stephan still had the switchblade, and he hardly thought he could put up a fight unarmed and without knowledge of the others' weaponry.

He had no idea how many black-clad heavies he would find inside the building but as he was led inside, he realized how vastly outnumbered they were. The men lined the walls. In the tiny lobby he was immediately met with two of them, faceless and taller than himself; their thick hands wrapped around his arms and dragged him up the stairs.

He heard Federico grunt behind him and turned his head. The boy had tripped on the stairs and a rough hand had caught his collar to pull him up. Giovanni's chest ached as he was shoved down a hallway, past a heavily-guarded door, and thrown into a decrepit apartment. He landed atop an old mattress; he stood shakily and turned to the door.

Federico was thrown in after him, roughly, and Giovanni couldn't get out of the way before his eldest son crashed into him and knocked them both down onto the stained old bed.

The door was slammed shut and Giovanni heard a few clunks and the rattle of a chain, securing it shut from the outside.

"Sorry," said Federico gruffly, trying to get to his feet. Giovanni took his son's shoulders in his hands and helped him stand. "You never realize how much you need your arms, you know?"

Giovanni grimaced. "Let me, uh... turn around."

Federico turned and Giovanni untied the knots that bound his hands; he threw the rope down on the floor and Federico rubbed his wrists, sitting beside his father on the bed. "Thanks," he said, looking out the window.

"Mm." Giovanni stared at his knees, clenching his teeth.

Federico sighed, glancing down at the rope beneath his feet. "What are we going to do, dad?" he whispered.

Giovanni shook his head. "I... I'm not sure."

There was a brief silence; Federico shuffled his sneakers on the thin, stained carpet beneath the bed. It was the only furniture in the room, apart from a clunky windowseat upon which sat another plastic box fan.

He stood and went to the window; though there was a convenient ledge beneath it, there was also a cadre of thugs standing below it, ready for them should they decide to make a run for it.

Giovanni didn't need to look; he had only to listen to their voices, quiet as they were, to know of their presence. There were at least ten of them, if not a dozen or more.

"What do they want from us?" Federico asked finally, quietly, as he leaned his forearm on the windowframe.

Unable to contain a quiet bark of bitter laughter, Giovanni clenched his hands tight around the edge of the mattress. "_Everything_."


	93. La Vendetta degli Amanti XCIII

Gilberto sat in his quiet, dark apartment on the south end of town, with his laptop open on the coffee table in front of him as the sole source of light. A stoneware bowl of fresh raspberries sat in his lap. His long legs were folded beneath him; his shirt hung open at his sides.

He had been waiting for an e-mail since the morning concerning certain of his accounts, but it had not come. He was relatively unconcerned, as the banker was often distracted and it was the weekend, but this did not keep him from being annoyed on general principle at the inconvenience.

He reached a berry-stained finger toward the laptop and checked his inbox once more, then shook his head irritably when only a couple of advertisements came in. The oven timer went off and he folded the computer, then stood, picking up the bowl of berries and taking it into the kitchen.

The kitchen smelled of caramelized sugar and warm flour. Gilberto picked up an oven mitt to pull the baking sheet from the oven and paused momentarily, frowning at the softest of scraping sounds at the door.

He put the baking sheet on the stove and shut the oven door, listening closely to the quiet irritating sounds of metal on metal. He threw a glance over his shoulder and through the walls he saw a man at the door, fumbling at the doorknob.

With a frown, he opened the top drawer beside the oven and pulled from it a wicked old butcher's knife with a curved wooden handle. He heard the door open and a few soft footsteps.

The door shut again and the footsteps continued through the small living room; he heard a sharp intake of breath coupled with the sound of something, perhaps a shin, hitting the coffee table in the dark.

Gilberto turned toward the door to the living room, his bright violet eyes glowing slightly as he watched the man approach through the thin wall. His long fingers curled around the handle of the knife and he drew in a quiet breath, tilting his head to the side.

The man turned the corner into the kitchen and Gilberto couldn't contain a smirk at the baffled expression on his face, visible even through the black knit mask he wore. Clearly he had found himself in an unexpected situation.

"Y-you're," the man began. He shook his head as if to throw off the last vestiges of a dream. "Uh..."

Gilberto laughed breathily. "Why are you in my apartment?" he asked. "To kill me?" He gestured to the pistol on the man's hip, obscured from the naked eye beneath a thick sweater. "I'm hardly _sorry_ to say you'll fail... but, ah, for the sake of _sporting_, as it were-"

"What the _fuck_ are you?" the man stammered as his senses returned to him.

With an animal smirk, Gilberto watched the minute movements of the intruder's arm through his sweater. "A freak," he said coolly.

The man's jaw clenched and he shook his head, as if remembering his purpose in the unlit apartment. His hand went to his hip. "Well, I... I don't think you're enough of a _freak_ that you can dodge bullets!" he said nervously, and pushed the hem of the heavy garment aside. He fumbled for his firearm, but the moment for which he looked away had been too long. With two long strides, Gilberto was upon him.

He covered the intruder's mouth with his hand, still wrapped in the mauve oven mitt, and pulled him against his lithe body with surprising strength. "You underestimate me," he whispered as he plunged the blade into the man's back, muffling his shout and harsh rattling gasps into the quilted glove. He wrenched the knife upward and out and let the man drop to the floor. The gun clattered momentarily on the floor and quieted as the body fell atop it.

Blood glittered wetly on the fabric of the black sweater; Gilberto looked down and with a disgusted grimace shrugged his shirt off of his shoulders. He wiped most of the blood from his bare chest. Stooping, he closed the intruder's eyes and put his own shirt and the oven mitt atop the body. A red stain blossomed on the gold fabric of the shirt. "_Ugh_... I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I couldn't let you go."

The intruder clearly had been sent for him; it had not been a random break-in. After a moment's consideration, Gilberto rifled through every pocket he could find, extracting a roll of large bills and a few spare other things before coming across the wallet in a deep pocket of black cargo pants. He looked in it. It contained little- a driver's license (which was a bad fake), a number of coupons and business cards, and, mildly amusingly, a condom of the flavored variety.

Gilberto frowned and extracted the thin stack of cards. In it he found one of his own- this one carrying the moniker Alistair McKenna- and one for a strip club on the north end of town under questionable ownership. He flipped the card over; on the back were a number of disorganized letters.

Sighing, he slid the cards into the back pocket of his jeans and returned the wallet to the pocket from whence it came, then stood and went to the sink, where he washed his hands and knife and wiped the remainder of smeared red from his chest with a wet dish towel, which he also left atop the body.

An unpleasant sick feeling coiled in the pit of his stomach as he thought of Giovanni; he would clearly have to make a trip to _Casa Auditore_, the sooner the better, but there was little reason he couldn't first make arrangements with regards to his kitchen.

With a nervous sigh, he went to the living room and picked up his Blackberry. He dialed and put it to his ear and was unsurprised when the call went directly to the answering machine.

"Hi... I'm sorry to bother you on a _Saturday_, but I have a bit of a mess on my hands." He scratched the back of his neck and put on his sweatshirt as the other end clicked.

A voice came through the phone. "_Good morning, Gilberto. Do you need assistance_?"

Gilberto tilted his head to the side to work the stiffness out of his neck. He drew a sharp breath through his teeth and grimaced, rubbing a sore spot in his shoulder and closing his eyes tightly as he tried to push his worries from his mind. "Ah, yes," he said. "My kitchen is in a bit of a _state_. I apologize; I was not as careful as I could have been so there will be prints."

"_Alright. I'll send someone out_," said the voice. "_Be safe. Stay clear for four hours, if you would._"

"Thank you, I will." Gilberto paused, trying to keep the tremors from his voice as he stepped into his shoes, unable to stay his mind from thoughts of the banker. "Ah... and please, do leave me at least _half_ of the cookies on the stove."


	94. La Vendetta degli Amanti XCIV

"_Weird_. Dad's not home." Ezio peered out of the window of the Beetle and frowned as the car rolled up the drive. "I mean... maybe he went in to work, but that's..."

Leonardo put the car in park and touched Ezio's thigh. "I am _sure_ it will be okay, honey," he said gently as he opened his door. He frowned and coughed into his hand, standing, and then closed his eyes and covered them with his arm. "_Ezio_... honey, there is-"

"Mace," said Altaïr, pushing the front seat down and forward. He got out of the car, squinting and holding his nose as a breeze blew the mostly-dissipated gas toward the car.

Desmond climbed out behind him, grimacing. "_Fuck_... good thing it's mostly gone... we'd be-"

"Petruccio!" said Ezio suddenly in alarm, running toward the house through the cloud of tear gas.

"Ezio... _Ezio_, wait, honey...!" Leonardo stumbled after him, closing blue eyes against the stinging air and flailing slightly as he tripped over the cobblestones.

Malik pushed Desmond out of the way gently and climbed out of the car. "Do we _follow_ them?" he asked, pulling his shirt up over his mouth and nose.

Ezio fumbled with his keys. He hurriedly unlocked the door and Leonardo caught up to him as he went into the living room. The house seemed to be in normal order, but the main floor was empty.

He went upstairs, with Leonardo following close behind; hushed voices were barely audible in his parents' bedroom off the landing. After taking a shaky breath he tried the knob.

The door swung open, and was followed quickly by a large ceramic umbrella stand arcing in the general direction of Ezio's head. He ducked under it and it flew past him, striking the banister railing with a loud crack; the pottery shattered into pieces.

"_Oh_!" Leonardo exclaimed, his shoulders pinned against the wall. His heart thumped hard against his ribcage. "What was _that_?"

"Ezio!" It was Claudia's voice, from somewhere inside the room.

Ezio turned back to the door to see a girl standing there with her hands over her mouth. She was a friend of Claudia's, who was a year older and now in college- Ezio recognized her, having seen her but never met her. "_Oh my god_... I am _so_ sorry," she said. "You scared the _shit_ out of me!"

"Don't worry about it," said Ezio with another glance at the broken railing. "_Jeez_..."

Claudia called to him again, petulantly. "_Ezio_, where were you!"

"We were at breakfast," said Leonardo. "Where is Petruccio? There is the _mace_ outside-"

"He's not here," said a pained voice that Ezio barely recognized as his mother's.

He swallowed hard and looked at the girl in the doorway. She was small, not much over five feet tall, with green eyes behind plastic-framed glasses and dark hair pulled back with a knit headband. "I... can I please come in?" he asked.

The girl's eyes widened. "Oh... sorry," she said, taking a step back. "I'm Brittney, by the way."

Distracted, Ezio shook her hand. She had a surprisingly strong handshake for her size. "I'm Ezio. What the _hell_ happened here?"

Three sets of footfalls came up the stairs. Altaïr stepped over the broken ceramic, frowning. "What the fuck was that _crash_?" he asked quietly, touching Leonardo's shoulder. "Are you guys okay?"

"We are fine, thank you," said Leonardo. "It seems that there has been an altercation."

Ezio stepped into the room to find Maria seated on the bed with her head in her hands. Claudia's arm was wrapped around her shoulders. "Mama? Are you okay?" the young man asked, crouching in front of his mother.

"They were harassing her," said Brittney. "We got here and they were outside."

Maria looked at her son. There was a smear of dried blood under her nose and her eyes were wet. Her jaw was clenched in a pained frown. "Ezio," she said, "it's your father. They have your father." She sniffed and sat up, wrapping her arms around her midsection and avoiding Ezio's eyes. Her blue shirt was spattered with blood, the top two buttons torn from it.

"Mama... what _happened_?" Ezio whispered. He touched her hand; her knuckles were bruised.

A fiercer scowl drifted over Maria's face. She took her son's face in her hands and stared into his golden eyes. "You are not _listening_ to me, Ezio!" she hissed. "They have your _father_ and your _brothers_!"

Ezio cringed at the harshness of his mother's tone. "I... who are _they_? What do they want?"

"The men who attacked me, Ezio." Maria closed her eyes and dropped her hands to her sides, gripping the edge of the bed. "They were sent by someone. I don't know who." She shook her head. "Ezio, there are more of them. They've gone to find your father and I can't reach him or Federico. If they don't have them already, they soon will."

There was a scrape at the window and Maria's thin form jerked. She turned away from her son and crawled stiffly across the bed to look through the curtains.

"_Jesus Christ_," she whispered, pulling the curtain back and opening one of the larger windows. "Have you never heard of a _door_?"

Gilberto pulled himself through the window and shut it. "_Mi dispiace_," he said, straightening his sweatshirt. "I saw you in here, and..." He paused, looking around the room; his eyes came to rest first on Leonardo, and then on Claudia's friend.

"Never mind that," Maria said, wrapping her arms around Gilberto's waist. "I am both pleased and annoyed to see you."

"There's pepper spray outside," said Gilberto, flushing slightly at the realization that, regardless of the others in it, the bedroom smelled strongly of Giovanni. It was a welcome change after the tear gas outside, but not what he needed. He tried to distract himself, reflecting that Maria smelled as stressed as he did. "What happened here?" he asked, holding her against his chest.

Brittney crossed the room. "There were some assholes around when Claudia and I got here... Mrs. Auditore was fighting them off, but then they came for us." She held up a lanyard with keys and a small canister dangling from it. "I would've shot them, but I don't have my _permit_ yet," she said frankly.

Gilberto smiled, sharp pointed canines showing between his lips. "I like this girl," he said. "I'm only glad I didn't break in at the _wrong time_." He shook his head. "In any case... Maria, I'd like to talk to you in private, if..." A downward glance to Ezio startled him; the young man's golden eyes were burning yellow, examining him. He grimaced and looked toward the window. "Never mind. Perhaps I will come back later."

"What happened, Gilberto?" Maria pressed, standing between him and his escape route.

With a sigh, Gilberto sat heavily in the chair beside the bed, fishing in his pocket. "I don't want to discuss it at length, but a man broke into my apartment. He was carrying _this_. It's not the strip club that interests me; it's the writing on the back." He held the business card out to Maria, who turned it over.

"But it's gibberish. A code, do you think?" She sat on the bed, looking at the scrambled letters. "But _why_..."

Leonardo scrambled past Brittney. He smiled briefly to Gilberto. "_Signor_ Volpe," he said cordially. "It is good to see you again! _Signora_ Auditore, _ti prego_, may I take a look at this?" He fingered the edge of the business card that Maria held. When she handed it to him, he took it to the window and stared at it. "_Affascinante_," he breathed.

"Leo?" asked Altaïr from the doorway. "What are you doing?"

Maria's body tensed. "There are so _many_ of you," she said nervously.

"Three outside the door... no, two right now," Gilberto said with a momentary glance upward. "Come in, please."

Altaïr entered the room; Ezio sat on the edge of his parents' bed, and Altaïr sat beside him.

"_You_!" said Malik, stopping in his tracks as he entered the room. "I _thought_ I recognized your voice!"

Gilberto frowned momentarily. "What?" He paused, looking up at Malik and sighing. "Oh... yes. Indeed. Me."

Altaïr's eyes flashed yellow as he looked from Malik to Gilberto and back again. "You know this guy?"

"I got into a car accident with him on Wednesday," Malik said.

"You didn't tell me about that!" said Altaïr with a frown. "Are you okay?"

Malik scowled at him. "It did not seem important. You were _busy_ at the time," he snapped.

Altaïr frowned and returned his attention to Gilberto. He was surrounded by heavenly blue shapes, friendly calming glows, but somehow this man blended into the background, blue-grey and hazy, unreadable. He shifted position, hoping in vain that this was a trick of the light.

"I thought you were _Paolo_," said Malik irritably. "Who are you?"

"I am called many things," said Gilberto enigmatically. "Murderer. Cutthroat. Thief." He looked over to Altaïr, into those yellow eyes that he somehow felt he knew, with an animal smile. "But you may call me La Volpe."

Altaïr let his vision return to normal. "_Ha_. Joker, smoker, midnight toker... _nice to meet you_," he sniped, feeling uncomfortable. "I'm Altaïr. Al, if you prefer. See how _simple_ that is?"

Desmond returned from the bathroom and entered the room, pausing at the foot of the bed. "La Volpe," he said with a frown. "What are you doing here?"


	95. La Vendetta degli Amanti XCV

"_Okay_! I have it!" Leonardo declared proudly. "It was difficult without a large sample... I was _not_ sure I would be able to do it!" He brandished the business card at Gilberto, who took it from him. "But... it does not make sense."

With a frown, Gilberto read Leonardo's messy writing aloud. "Nineteen hundred Olive and Mason." He scratched the back of his neck and sighed. "Nineteen hundred... but that's... that intersection's in the hundreds, not the thousands." After a pause, he shook his head and stood, pocketing the card once again. "Alright. A minor inconvenience. Thank you, Leonardo," he said, opening the window.

Maria frowned at him from her desk, her chin rested on her thin, graceful hands. "Gilberto... are you leaving?"

Gilberto nodded wordlessly, leaning over to look out the window.

Ezio scowled at him from the bed. "You're _leaving_. Just like that, you're leaving. You have _fuck all_ and you're prancing out of here. What are you, Sherlock Holmes? What the hell's going to _happen_ at Olive and Mason? You have _nothing_."

Leonardo frowned at Ezio. "_Honey_! That is a _horrible_ thing to say-"

"It's quite alright, Leonardo," said Gilberto, shutting the window and turning toward Ezio. "Tell me... what exactly _else_ do we have to go on?" He folded his arms irritably over his chest, lifting auburn eyebrows coolly. "This is everything we have, and I'm going to use it to the best of my ability."

Ezio's hand curled into a tight fist at his side as he stared at Gilberto, his eyes flashing yellow once again. "You're leaving because you don't want to help." His dark eyebrows knit and his scarred lips twitched into a scornful sneer. "I understand. Get out, then."

Maria opened and then shut the drawer of her desk with a slam, startling nearly everyone in the room. "_Ezio_," she growled.

Gilberto lay a gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezed, then stalked around the foot of the bed and took Ezio's chin roughly in his fingertips, leaning into him, his dark eyes deadly serious. "You and I have _exactly_ the same things at stake," he breathed. "Do not make an enemy of me."

Ezio swallowed, looking up into Gilberto's eyes with a modicum of fear. The sharp points of his canines seemed to present themselves more than usual; Ezio squirmed, looking away.

Throwing a glance in Desmond's direction, Gilberto frowned, wondering if he had truly seen a glimmer of yellow in the bartender's eyes. It had been strange to see Altaïr's eyes glow as Giovanni's did and as Ezio's did, but a third in the room tipped the scale into the bizarre. He frowned and crossed the room again toward the window and opened it.

"Wait," Maria said, turning her chair from her desk and standing.

Gilberto turned away from the windows; his expression softened and he touched Maria's cheek gently. She looked up into dull brown eyes rimmed with red and wrapped her arms around him, then slid a hand down his back, tucking her head momentarily against his shoulder.

They broke apart and she gave him a pointed nod, as if dismissing him. "Call if you find anything," she said.

"Of course," Gilberto replied, touching her shoulder before slipping out the window and dropping to the ground.

Ezio glared at his knees, and then at his mother's left hip because he could not bring himself to look into her eyes. He stood and pushed past Malik, who was deep in thought, and left the room.

"Honey... Ezio!" Leonardo frowned, watching him leave, and rested a hand on Maria's desk. "I... I cannot..." He grunted feebly in annoyance, drumming his fingers on the wood. "I just..."

"That guy _creeps me out_," Altaïr said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Desmond nodded. "I gather he's a nice guy... he just... he makes me nervous. I can't put my finger on why." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "_Ugh_... I've got a funny headache," he said.

Malik rubbed his lower lip with his index finger, leaning against the door of the closet. "I... of course. A time. It is a _time_," he said slowly, quietly; he murmured the words to himself, carefully mulling the thought over, playing with it, examining any possible flaws before nodding to himself.

"What's that?" Maria asked, looking up at him with a frown.

"It is not an _address_," Malik said. "It is a time. Seven o'clock in the evening, to be precise."

Leonardo seemed to deflate against Maria's desk. "Of _course_," he hissed. "How could I be so _stupid_..." He paced in the space beside the bed, letting loose a stream of whispered obscenities under his breath. "I do not _know_ how I did not think of this... it is so _simple_! It explains the manner in which it was written and... _toh_, I am so _blind_..."

Malik chuckled. "Leonardo, it is _alright_! It still begs the question of _what_ will happen."

"And to who," said Altaïr with a frown, catching up.

"To _whom_," Malik corrected.


	96. La Vendetta degli Amanti XCVI

Gilberto slid his hand into his back pocket and curled his fingers around the key that Maria had discreetly given him. He hadn't had to ask what it was; he had merely left for Old Town in his gold Corvette, turning up the radio to drown out the myriad anxious thoughts that tumbled through his mind.

He got out of the car, putting on his dark sunglasses to block out the seeming overabundance of early afternoon light, streaming in trapezoidal shafts through the windows of the parking garage, and pulled up the hood of his brown sweatshirt, covering his auburn hair, shading his face.

After a short ride in the elevator, he looked around the corners and started toward Walnut, taking the alleys when he could; he would have preferred to make his way entirely across the rooftops but it would hardly do to call attention to himself when he was clearly a marked man, and there were intersections in the way.

He made his way north, hiding in the shrinking shadows of the buildings, skirting around intersections. He bypassed the police station by way of climbing the drainpipe and fire escape of the aged hotel on the corner and crossing over the heads of the officers inside the building, and with little effort climbed down into the Old Town square, into a shaded spot beneath an awning. The focus of the small crowd gathered around the fountain in the square was on a small group of belly dancers who jangled on the stage.

Taking a slow breath, Gilberto moved from the shadows, walking past the storefronts, blending into the moving crowd until he reached the bank.

He entered the building, which was relatively empty; there were two young tellers inside, one of whom was sweeping the lobby.

"Can I help you, sir?" said the cheerful young girl at the window.

Gilberto lowered his sunglasses. "I'm here to see Giovanni Auditore," he said. His words earned him only a blank stare, and he sighed irritably. "The, ah... the franchise owner."

The teller's eyes went a bit wide and her face flushed slightly. "_Oh_... I'm sorry, I don't know if he's in his office right now. I can call upstairs if you like-"

"That will be quite alright, thank you; I'll go up myself." Gilberto took his sunglasses off and stuck them in the pocket of his sweatshirt. His bare chest sweated beneath the thick fabric, and now in the air conditioning he was quite cold. He shivered involuntarily.

"Uh... well, okay," said the teller. It was hardly a surprise to her that someone would want to see him; there had been a number of visits made to the banker recently. "It's on the-"

She looked up but Gilberto was already gone. He took the stairs two at a time, hurrying up the three flights to Giovanni's office, and slid the key into the lock.

It almost surprised him how easily he had gained access. It was rare that he dropped in on his friend at work.

He turned the key in the lock and opened the door; the office was empty, as he had expected. He shut and locked the door behind himself and returned the key to his pocket as he crossed the room to investigate Giovanni's desk.

Giovanni's phone was there, plugged into the wall charger. Gilberto picked it up, then looked at the computer. He chewed his lip and turned it on, and as it was booting, looked through Giovanni's missed calls.

There was a missed call from a number that wasn't in the phone's memory; Gilberto frowned and called it.

As he waited for the call to go through, he held the phone against his ear with his shoulder and pressed control-alt-delete on the keyboard.

He was presented with a small login screen and scowled at the empty password box as the speaker clicked.

"_Hello_?"

The voice on the other end was that of a bewildered Desmond. Gilberto sighed. "_Hello_," he said. "It's just me. I gather you called Giovanni's phone."

Desmond sighed. "_I let Ezio borrow my cell_," he said. "_I'm guessing he left it somewhere_."

"At his office." Gilberto rubbed his forehead with a hand. "Alright. Thank you." He hung up before Desmond could reply and shuffled his foot on the plastic mat beneath the desk, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully.

He tried first leaving the text box blank, which didn't work, and then came up with a number of passwords- pertaining to Giovanni's wife and children, to the business, to Giovanni's life- and came up dry with each one; he was about to give up hope before a final idea limped into his head. It was weak but worth a shot.

He typed the letters, laughing to himself, reflecting on his desperation as he did so: "whatcolorarewe?"

The login screen disappeared and Gilberto cocked his head to the side with a perplexed smile. "_Really_, Giovanni," he breathed.

The computer was lagging; Gilberto scowled at it and looked through Giovanni's planner as it logged him in. There was nothing written on the current day's page. He returned the planner to the desk drawer and opened Giovanni's e-mail client.

A few business-related e-mails trickled in; Gilberto ignored them in favor of looking through the ones he'd already read.

There was a stack of replies from Lorenzo, from earlier in the week. Gilberto opened one of them.

_Giovanni,_

_ I'll see you there. Giuliano's coming into town for a while and he's never been there. Angelo will join us and we'll write it off as a business expense!_

_ Yours,_

_ Lorenzo._

Gilberto sighed and shuffled through the rest of the responses. There was little content there other than Lorenzo's usual banal come-ons, inappropriate things to be sent through his business e-mail, but as he was the CEO of the company, there was little to be done for that.

He picked up Giovanni's phone again and went to his calendar; with a pleased sound he noted that there was a frame around the current date. He was about to open the entry when his Blackberry buzzed in his pocket.

Grunting under his breath, he pulled the phone free and answered it. "Yes, what is it?"

"Signor_ Volpe, this is Leonardo_!" said the voice on the other end excitedly. "_We have figured it out_!"

Gilberto frowned, setting Giovanni's phone down. "Figured _what_, precisely-"

"_It is a _time!" Leonardo exclaimed. "_Seven o'clock_! _Nineteen hundred, it is seven_. _I did not think of this_!"

Sighing irritably, Gilberto settled back in Giovanni's chair, trying to block out the scent of the banker that filled the room. "Okay. Thank you, Leonardo."

"Di nulla! _It was Malik who said this. He makes me feel stupid sometimes_," Leonardo laughed.

Gilberto scowled. "Yes, well. Okay." He picked up Giovanni's phone again to look at the calendar; his eyebrows twitched upward and his jaw went slack at the appointment. "_Fuck_... Leonardo. Give the phone to Ezio, please," he said.

Leonardo paused momentarily. "_Ah_... _well, Ezio does not really wish to talk to you_," he said.

"Never mind that," Gilberto growled. "Either you can communicate the urgency of this or I will, Leonardo."

"_Uh_... _hang on, honey_."

Gilberto heard Leonardo speaking to Ezio in hushed tones; he heard the young man's impetuous grumbling and briefly, angrily, wished that he could throttle him through the phone.

"_Yeah_," said Ezio grumpily. "_What is it_?"

"It's Lorenzo," he said. "They came after Giovanni and after myself. Lorenzo will be next. They're supposed to meet for dinner tonight, Ezio, at seven. This is _something_- this is _big_, and it's down to _you_."

There was a pause, in which Ezio sighed. "_I'm really not sure what you want from me, Volpe_," he said.

Gilberto grimaced. "Ezio... I'm sorry. I would love to do this myself, but they clearly know me." He returned to the recent calls on the banker's phone. "I'm not sure why they didn't go after you, but they didn't, and you're the best hope we have right now. They're meeting at the sushi place at-"

"_I_... _I don't want to_! _I don't know what you want me to do, but I don't want to do it_!" Ezio said.

A flash of sudden red filled Gilberto's field of vision and he sighed out a seething breath. "Ezio, you do _not_ want this on your conscience!" he hissed. "I recommend that you _grow a pair_ and get yourself to Olive and Mason tonight." He paused, and when Ezio didn't respond, curled his hand into a tight fist around the phone. "They have your _father_, Ezio."

Ezio was once again silent; Gilberto heard only the blip of his phone's speaker as the call was ended.

He snarled a curse and somehow kept himself from throwing his Blackberry across the room, fuming as he turned his attention back to the most recent call Giovanni had made.

It took only a moment for his mind to gather the pertinent data, and he clenched his teeth in annoyance, sighing disgustedly.

Uberto Alberti had always been weak.


	97. La Vendetta degli Amanti XCVII

It was quiet in the living room with Claudia and Maria gone; Brittney had taken them to a safehouse at the north end of town to convince Claudia that she would be unharmed.

Ezio had seated himself on the couch, and Desmond sat at his side; Altaïr vacillated between living room and kitchen, never too far from Malik's side but pacing, annoying everyone within the confines of the house.

Leonardo filled the coffee maker with water and started a pot brewing, watching Altaïr out of the corner of his eye as he spoke to Malik. "I just _hope_ that we can get this sorted out because it is so _pointless_... you know?"

Malik nodded obligingly, seating himself at the kitchen island and examining the shiny flecks in the granite countertop.

"And poor _signor_ Volpe, he looked so _distraught_... oh... and poor _Claudia_... she is so frightened!" Leonardo fussed, washing a large bowl solely because it was sitting in the sink. "And _oh_... Ezio's poor dear _mother_, she must be so worried!"

With a sigh, Malik tilted his head to the side, watching. "Leonardo-"

"And of course there is my _Ezio_..." Leonardo threw a glance over his shoulder at Malik. He looked somewhat manic, his blond hair hanging in his eyes. "Yes? What is it, honey?"

"You are acting possessed, my friend," Malik said. "Why are you washing that?"

Leonardo sighed. "To make use of myself! I never tire of being useful." He rinsed the bowl out and set it in the drying rack. "In any case, why should I _not_..." He turned around to look at Altaïr, who continued on his path, and clenched a fist at his side. "Will you _please_ sit down! You are driving me up my tree!" he sniped.

Altaïr stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder, frowning. "_Jeez_... sorry, Leo," he muttered. "Can I get a cup of coffee?"

"Oh! Of _course_... _mi dispiace_." Leonardo turned back toward the coffee maker and clicked his tongue at it. "It will be a moment longer... I am sorry..."

Sitting beside Malik, Altaïr shook his head. "No worries. I can wait."

Malik looked at Altaïr with half a smile, resting his arm on the countertop. "You are stressed," he observed.

Altaïr fidgeted under the counter, rubbing the small fragment of bone between the second and last fingers of his left hand. It seemed to have taken up aching dully. "Nah."

"Whatever you say," Malik sighed. "I would like to believe you, but I do not." He leaned further forward, trying to catch Altaïr's eyes. When, finally, Altaïr looked at him, Malik reached toward him; he caught his chin in a rough hand and looked briefly into golden eyes before kissing him with conviction, all subtlety momentarily lost.

When Malik pulled back, Altaïr opened his eyes; he felt a flush heat his cheeks and smiled slightly, looking down at the counter. "Thanks. I'm better now," he said.

Malik nodded. "It was my pleasure," he said.

Leonardo poured two cups of coffee and brought them to the counter, setting them down on coasters. "_Okay_," he said. "Only be careful that you do not _spill_ on the granite, it is very... sensitive to the acid in things. It etches like the glass." He nodded and turned away, going back to the coffee maker.

"Is there any sugar?" Malik asked; Altaïr gave him a sidelong glance, smirking in mild disbelief.

"Oh... of course, honey," said Leonardo distractedly, finding a sugar bowl with attached tongs and a spoon. He put it on the counter and went back to work on pouring coffee.

Malik took the lid off of the sugar bowl and picked up the tongs. He carefully placed three sugar cubes in the cup, and then, after a moment's pause, added a fourth.

Altaïr chuckled quietly as Malik handed him the tongs.

"Ah... _honey_, do you know how much sugar you put in your coffee?" asked Leonardo with a glance over his shoulder.

Malik nodded slowly as he stirred his coffee. "Yes, thank you," he said, watching Altaïr similarly sweeten his coffee.

Leonardo lifted his brows. "Oh... I apologize, I... oh." He frowned, going to the kitchen door. "Desmond, honey, coffee? How, um... how do you take it?"

"On my back, Leo," Desmond called back.

"Oh, yes. Thank you, Desmond," Leonardo huffed, taking the coffee cups into the living room. "There is sugar in the kitchen, if Altaïr is done with it, and cream and soy milk in the refrigerator."

Desmond smiled. "Thanks," he said, standing and heading out of the room.

Ezio rested his forehead on his arms, staring at the floor. "Hey, Leo," he said weakly.

"_Ezio_." Leonardo smiled and sat beside him. "Honey... I know you are in distress but it will be okay, _sì_?"

"Whatever you say," Ezio mumbled. "I... I don't know what to do. If that _asshole_ knows what to do so well he should do it himself."

Leonardo opened his mouth to speak, but an impatient sigh cut him off as Desmond returned. "_Look_, Ezio... the guy's upset," the bartender said. "He's doing his best, I think. He's a close friend of your dad's, huh?"

With a grunt, Ezio slumped back against the couch cushions. "Des, I know him better than you do. La Volpe's into money and that's about it."

Desmond picked up a framed photograph from an end table, tilting his head as he looked at two young men in Renaissance dress outside the grounds of a festival. One was slightly shorter, his brown hair hanging around his face; the other, taller man's face was shaded by a brown hood. The two men were embracing, and a gentle, contented smile was visible on the taller man's face. "You hate him so much," Desmond said. "You can't even _see him_ because you hate him. His eyes were red... like he was trying not to cry."

"It's his _contacts_," Ezio sniped as Leonardo left the room to avoid the confrontation. "The mace made his eyes water and his contacts-"

"Which contacts? Those crazy purple ones? He wasn't _wearing_ them!"

Ezio laughed abruptly. "Des, how did you get so _dense_? He's had the purple eyes for as long as I've known him- the _brown_ cosmetic contacts are new."

There was a series of loud bangs at the door, jarring Ezio from his thoughts; he looked up, then to Desmond, his lips parted in a frightened frown.

"Who's at the door?" Altaïr asked from the kitchen, peeking around the corner.

"I... I don't know," Ezio replied.

The knocking recommenced, and there was a momentary pause. "_Maria_?" shouted a familiar voice outside the door. "_Giovanni_?"

Ezio stood and hurried to the door. "_Zio_ Mario!" He threw the door open and his eyes widened at the sight of a spatter of blood over his uncle's broad chest. "Are you okay?"

Mario frowned. "I'm fine. Someone came after me at the ranch... _don't worry_, it's not mine. Where's your mother?"

"Th-the safehouse," Ezio said, eyeing the red stain on Mario's shirt. "With Claudia. D-dad's gone. I-"

"I know," Mario interrupted. "I called his phone. Gilberto told me everything." He looked up, suddenly noting the presence of the others in the house. "_Shit_. Ezio, where'd they come from?"

Ezio shook his head, bewildered. "I, well... c-come in, please, _zio_."

Mario entered the house and shut and locked the door behind himself. "Who are you?" he asked, looking over Ezio's shoulder at Altaïr, who stood in the kitchen doorway.

"Altaïr. We're all friends of Ezio's. We were at breakfast with him." The mechanic shifted awkwardly against the doorframe, looking into the kitchen at Malik. He looked up and a sudden tremor of intimidation rumbled through him as he saw a glint of yellow in Mario's eye.

Mario nodded. "Alright." He looked at Desmond. "And you?"

"Desmond. I'm Desmond." He looked up at the white scar visible above and below Mario's eyepatch, lifting his eyebrows.

Leonardo peeked in from the kitchen and gasped. "_Signor_ Auditore, you are bleeding!" he said, rushing to Mario and examining the splotch of dried blood that had spread over his chest. "We must get you to a doctor!"

With a frown, Mario pushed Leonardo away. "Please, Leonardo. Firstly, it's _zio_ Mario. Secondly, as I was telling Ezio, it's not mine."

Doing his best not to look horrified, Leonardo nodded. "Oh... okay." Feeling faint, he sat down on the couch and rested his face in his hands.

Altaïr wrung his hands in the kitchen doorway, chewing his lip. "Ah... can I get you a cup of coffee?"

Malik leaned around the corner, lifting dark eyebrows. "And perhaps some _chlorine bleach_?"


	98. La Vendetta degli Amanti XCVIII

Mario drank deeply from his coffee mug and settled himself back in a chair. He gestured at the phone book that lay open on the coffee table. "So it's Olive and Mason; the dinner reservations are at that sushi place a block over." He paused. "It's a bit of a _stretch_, but the best we have to go on. It's directly in their path if they use the parking garage, after all." He curled a hand around his ankle and pulled it up onto the other knee.

"But why do we think it has anything to do with them?" Ezio asked, brushing a stray strand of hair back from his face as he frowned at a map of downtown. "It's just an intersection. Lots of people eat at that restaurant."

"You didn't hear him, did you?" asked Altaïr, who had previously been quietly examining his fingernails.

Ezio turned toward him, tilting his head to the side like a bird surveying its prey. "Excuse me?"

Altaïr shook his head. "He's right, Ezio. It's the only plan we have." He stared at the floor beneath his feet as he spoke, his voice a penetrating low rumble. "Think about it for a second: if we show up and nothing's going on, we've wasted an evening. If we don't go, who knows what will happen." As he spoke he raised his eyes to meet Ezio's, challenging him, mirroring the tilt of his head.

Curling a hand into an impetuous fist, Ezio scowled. "I..." He looked at his uncle, and then at Leonardo, who stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Ezio," Mario said, swirling the liquid around in his mug, then draining it. "I wish I could think of another way-"

"Has _no one_ but me thought of calling the police?" Ezio asked, resting his forearms on his knees and hanging his head.

A hush fell over the room, during which Altaïr looked at Malik with a frown of utter disbelief.

Mario set his coffee cup down on the table a little harder than he'd intended; the clank echoed through the room. "_Ezio_... come with me," he said, getting to his feet and silently leaving the room.

Ezio stood, looking momentarily afraid for his life, and sighed. He neutralized his expression before following Mario downstairs.

The harsh bang of the basement door shutting startled Leonardo, who trembled on the verge of tears. "I..." He shook his head quietly in the doorway.

Malik's gaze shifted from the coffee cup he held in his hand up to Altaïr's eyes, and then finally to Leonardo. "I think," he said quietly, "that you had better sit, my friend. You look faint."

Leonardo sniffed and entered the room, seating himself beside Altaïr. "Do you ever feel as if something is your fault... when it likely could not have been helped?" he asked.

Altaïr's chest tightened as he put an arm around Leonardo. "It's not your fault," he said.

Mario's booming voice pervaded the air; Malik winced as a few choice words seemed to slip through the filter, such as _evidence_, _feds_, and _business_.

_Business_. The very word carried the weight of the world when spoken by someone like Mario; the connotations seemed almost tangible. The undercurrents had undercurrents, and in eventuality it all piled up into a bundle of painful thoughts buried as a number of thorns in his side. Malik shifted uncomfortably, shooting another nervous glance in Altaïr's direction, as if to make sure he would do nothing stupid.

Altaïr merely sighed into Leonardo's hair, letting his eyes wander toward Malik.

Desmond quietly hugged his knees. He sat on a plush carpet in front of the dormant television, watching as the lightweight leaves of the open phone book fluttered slightly beneath the ceiling fan. He had hardly reason to be there, other than that his truck was across town, and he was beginning to resent Mario's demands that no one leave.

"Do you think that I could _help_?" Leonardo asked finally. "To smooth things over, perhaps."

"I don't think so, Leo," Altaïr said. "They'll work it out."

"With fists," said Desmond under his breath.

Malik took a drink of his syrupy-sweet coffee and settled himself into the couch. "Sometimes this is the best way," he said sagely. "In any case, it is best to let them be."

There was a finality in his voice; upon the ceasing of his words the room fell silent.

The door to the downstairs creaked open and Ezio traipsed up the stairs, looking defeated. Mario rested a great hand on his shoulder.

"_Ezio_..." Leonardo stood up from the couch and Ezio gave him a weak smile.

Mario shook his head. "Now Leonardo's going to think I've beaten you into submission," he griped. "Leonardo, I'd appreciate another cup of coffee, if you would."

Ezio sat heavily on the couch and pulled the phone book into his lap as Leonardo skittered out of the room; a snippet of an electric guitar solo played in Mario's pocket and he retrieved his phone.

"Gilberto," he said, pressing the device to his ear. "I'm listening." He removed himself from the room, heading downstairs, as Gilberto spoke.

"_I've acquired some information on Giovanni's, ah_..._ surprise party_." The sounds of the city played in the brief gaps in the man's speech as he pieced together the words. He was clearly in public. "_No word yet about tonight's get-together_."

Mario pulled the door shut behind him and sank into a seat beside the family portrait, the corners of his mouth twitching into an irritable frown. "_Continue_," he urged.

Gilberto sighed. "_The Zaccardi. It's Emilio Zaccardi who's hosting the_... _festivities_."

Wincing, Mario curled a hand in a tight fist at his side. "I hardly need to ask if you're sure," he groused.

"_I'm certain. As certain as I can be without _asking_ anyone, anyway_," Gilberto replied. "_But_-"

"That's a damned inconvenience," Mario interrupted. "Gilberto, where did you pick this up?"

"_Uberto Alberti_," Gilberto said, with more than a hint of pain in his voice. "_Well, not precisely. I had a hunch. He has one-way tickets to Napoli on Tuesday_."He paused, coughing. "_Seems like he's in a hurry to leave once it's over_."

Mario groaned. "Oh... _fuck me_." He slid his hand over his head, smoothing shiny dark hair that fluffed out into tight curls beneath the elastic band that secured his eyepatch. "I can hardly say I'm surprised, but... god damn it."

"_I am correct about Uberto's choice of invitees, yes_?" Gilberto asked, his speech faltering. "_I seem to recall someone having, er_..._ made favors_." He paused."_Something about Uberto's connections with the mayor's office_," he muttered, clearly tired of speaking in code.

"You're correct," Mario replied, curling his fingers in the ringlets at the back of his neck, staring despairingly at the floor.

The sound of a chirping crosswalk signal buzzed in the phone's speaker. "_Don't worry_," Gilberto said. "_We'll have a chance to see him before he's gone. He wouldn't want to leave without seeing old friends, after all_."


	99. La Vendetta degli Amanti XCIX

Half an hour had passed in uncomfortable silence in the living room. Finally Leonardo had gone to the kitchen to busy himself and Desmond had followed for lack of anything better to do.

Ezio's attempts at extracting information from his uncle had proved ineffectual and Mario merely sat, breathing over his whiskey-enhanced coffee and waiting.

No one was exactly certain for what he waited.

The answer came, however, in the form of a scrape on the roof, the slide of the plate glass patio door, and a frightened gasp from Leonardo, followed closely by a smooth apology and the clicking of the lock.

"_Mi dispiace_. I did not expect you to be here," said Gilberto. "He hasn't sent you home yet?"

Mario's ears seemed to perk up. He stood and went to the kitchen, grinning as he went; Gilberto extended a hand to him but Mario wrapped his arms around him and scooped him up. With a displeased grunt, Gilberto allowed the larger man to hold him, dangling his feet two inches above the floor.

"_Yes_, yes," he said finally. "I'm pleased to see you as well. May I please stand?"

Reluctantly Mario set his friend down on the floor and watched him adjust the sweatshirt over his bare torso. "How the hell have you been?" he asked brashly. "It's only been about two years-"

Gilberto cut him off with a scowl. "There's time for that _later_, Mario," he said. "Should we not focus our energy on the problem at hand?" He pulled out a chair at the small table and sat, resting his head in his hands.

Mario frowned, touching Gilberto's shoulder. "Alright. Do you have anything else?"

"I was planning to take a look through Giovanni's laptop," Gilberto replied. "I hope that I might get a better idea as to whom he's been contacting."

With a nod, Mario rubbed his friend's shoulder. "It's my sincere hope that we can fix this sooner rather than later. I'll have someone get Giovanni's laptop for you. I'm not sure which one's his and which one's Maria's." Gilberto folded himself nearly double, resting his forearms on his knees and his head on his wrist, as Mario left the room. He returned quickly as Ezio went up the stairs to retrieve the computer.

Desmond leaned against the cabinets, folding his arms over his chest. He looked at Leonardo and sighed. "How long do you think he's planning to keep us here?" he asked in a whisper.

Leonardo looked up from the tomato he was cutting and shook his head. "I am not sure," he said shortly and returned his attention to his project.

With an irritable sigh, Desmond rested his elbows on the counter and stared at the ceiling. "I just wish I had my _truck_," he said.

Gilberto looked up at Desmond. "What do you need your truck for?" he asked.

Mario frowned at each of them in turn. "_No_, no one's leaving," he said. "Gilberto, I can't have them calling the police-"

A harsh glare from Gilberto cut Mario off. The lithe man stood and took the computer from Ezio in the doorway. "Mario, _per favore_." He shot a glance at Desmond. "Where do you have to go?"

"I have work at eight," Desmond replied with a sigh. "I can call my boss if I need to-"

"No need," Gilberto replied with an odd sort of smile. He opened the computer and set it down on the counter as it booted. "We'll get you there, _amico_."

Leonardo nodded. "I will drive him! I would like to pay a visit," he said.

Mario grimaced. "Fine, but how are we going to deal with the problem at hand?"

With a sigh, Gilberto pecked irritably at the keyboard of the laptop. "_Patience_, Mario. It's a virtue." He peered into the living room. Ezio sat on the couch; Altaïr's muscular arm was wrapped around him. They conversed quietly, but Gilberto made out their voices with little work.

"It's your _dad_, Ezio," Altaïr said, leaning to look into Ezio's eyes. "Doesn't that compel you?"

Ezio grunted. "It's not just my _dad_, it's my brothers too! You think I don't _know_ that?" His hair was messy, falling from the elastic that held it back in tangled curtains around his face. "I just don't know what they expect me to do."

Gilberto sighed and opened Giovanni's e-mail client. It took only a moment to come up and when it did, several e-mails presented themselves, including a new one from the young CEO of the Medici Bank.

_Giovanni,_

_ Angelo tells me you called for me. I apologize... my phone seems to have gone missing. Regardless, though, we'll see you tonight. Giuliano sends his best and looks forward to seeing you. He enjoys your company nearly as much as I do._

_ With affection,_

_ Lorenzo._

With a grimace, Gilberto closed that e-mail and scrolled down.

Mario looked over his shoulder and frowned. "There's not a lot there," he observed. "Kind of... surprisingly little."

Leonardo turned and peered curiously around Mario's massive shoulder at the screen. "You know... it is almost like he has _deleted_ some messages. You see here?" He reached around the muscular arm in his way to point at the inbox. "There is nothing here on Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday." He shook his head. "You see? I think that maybe he has deleted something."

Gilberto frowned. "Can't get it back, can we?"

"_Spiace_, but I do not think so." Leonardo sighed. "But maybe... maybe he has missed something in the sent messages? Try to look at those."

Opening the Sent folder, Gilberto stretched. His back made a few choice sounds and he grunted his displeasure, returning his attention to the computer screen and swearing under his breath.

The folder was completely empty.

Mario grimaced and turned away. "Leave it to my baby brother to _fuck himself_," he snapped.

Gilberto sighed and slunk off to the small table, where he sat heavily and rested his head in his hands. Giovanni had been evasive for a time, and it had made his friend exceedingly uncomfortable; now it seemed that he knew why.

"_Signor_ Volpe?" The voice was quiet and gentle, accompanied by the light touch of a hand on his shoulder. Gilberto looked up to see Leonardo in front of him, holding a stoneware plate. A sandwich cut diagonally in half sat on it.

With a weak smile, Gilberto took the plate. "Thank you, Leonardo."

"_Sì, signore_... I also have a question for you." Leonardo crouched beside Gilberto. "Who is Emilio Zaccardi?"

Gilberto frowned, staring into Leonardo's bright blue eyes, as he put the plate down. "Ah... why do you ask?"

Leonardo shot a glance toward Giovanni's computer. "_Mi dispiace_. I looked in his drafts folder. There is a message that is addressed to you... I did not read it, I assure you! But this name... it is the subject. I only wonder who he is."

"A problem." Gilberto stood and went to the counter again. Mild vertigo momentarily inconvenienced him and he had to close his eyes. He had eaten little over the course of the day and his stomach ached, but his heart felt somehow minutely lighter as he opened the message.

_Amico mio,_

_ I apologize for my reticence on this topic. I have thought it over; if I cannot trust you, then who can I trust? I have trusted you with far more indelicate matters than this, after all._

_ I have little control over that which has been set in motion but I have attempted to rectify the trouble. I have contacted Uberto to ask his assistance in this matter because I know well that he has a large amount of contact with the involved parties._

_ However, the situation is thus: Emilio Zaccardi's accounts at my branch of the bank are causing trouble. I'll spare you the details but he's trying to get me to do some very risky things with some very dirty money and I'd prefer not to._

_ It has escalated to threat display and he expects the correct decision from me by Monday morning._

_ There is no correct decision._

_ Volpe mia, make of this what you will, but if you are reading this it is likely because something has gone wrong._

_ I have little advice for you... but now you know. I am sorry to have left you in the dark._

_ Ti voglio bene._

_ Giovanni._

Gilberto looked away from the computer screen, and from the eyes of Mario and Leonardo. He closed the computer and made his way to the living room, picking up the keys to his Corvette from the kitchen counter as he went. He put on his sunglasses, purposefully heading toward the door, but suddenly his sweatshirt pulled up around his throat, choking him momentarily. He looked back to see Mario clutching his hood in a very large hand.

"Where are you going?" the bigger man asked, tilting his head to the side. He let go of Gilberto's hood and folded his arms over his chest.

With a sigh, Gilberto shot a glance in Ezio's direction. The boy sat on the couch, watching him. "I'm going to take care of this myself if no one else will," he hissed. "If Zaccardi wants Giovanni then I want Zaccardi."

Altaïr stammered on the couch and looked at Malik with panic in his golden eyes.

Malik was the epitome of cool and calm. "A moment," he said, and Gilberto rounded on him. Unfazed, Malik looked up at him with dark eyes. "_Zaccardi_, you say?"

"Mal, I..." Altaïr's mouth hung slightly open. He clutched his left hand in his right, holding it to his chest, and Ezio frowned, looking from Altaïr to Gilberto and then to Malik.

Gilberto cocked his head to the side, lowering his sunglasses. "Yes," he replied slowly.

"We are familiar with the Zaccardi." Malik stood, watching Gilberto's face with interest. The older man's expression hardly shifted but there was something in the minute twitch of his eyebrows that urged Malik onward. "I apologize. If we had known earlier-"

"_Malik_," Altaïr hissed, looking up. He hadn't planned to be involved, he hadn't _wanted_ to be involved; the only memories that came to mind involving the Zaccardi were bad ones and he would have been just as glad not to know. "I don't-"

The dark, dangerous glance that Malik cast over his shoulder shut Altaïr up. He returned his attention to Gilberto, stalking across the room. "Clearly the lives of Ezio's father and brothers are at stake," he said.

Gilberto nodded silently, watching the young man.

"If we had known earlier of this involvement... I would have known with what we are dealing," Malik said.

Mario frowned at Malik. "Kid, I'm sorry, but this is something you should probably leave to us-"

A dry, humorless chuckle sculpted a smirk on Malik's stern face. "Mister Auditore, if you please... we used to _work_ for the Zaccardi. I am confident that we know their style of operation." He looked over his shoulder at Altaïr, who wordlessly hung his head, then nodded. "If you will permit us... I think that we could help you."

Gilberto looked to Mario. "It's better than anything _else _we've gotten so far," he said pointedly, and Mario sighed.

"You're probably right," he said, lacing his fingers together at the back of his neck and stretching his massive chest. He sighed out a breath, staring at the ceiling as if unable to believe the situation.

A ghost of a triumphant smile passed across Gilberto's face.

"Rest assured," said Malik, "we harbor no affection for the Zaccardi." He looked toward his left side, lifting what remained of his arm with a grim smirk, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Altaïr cringe. "Both of us bear their wounds, do we not, Altaïr?"

Leonardo entered the room with plates stacked on his arms, and set them down on the table. On each one was a cut sandwich. "_Mi dispiace_, I am so sorry that this lunch took so... long..." He looked at Malik, and after a moment his gaze drifted to Ezio, who seemed to be mulling over the current events. He stared at nothing, which had settled itself on the coffee table. "_Ah_... honey, what is going on?" Leonardo asked quietly.

Ezio swallowed and sighed. "Statement of credentials," he said. "Of which I have none." He paused and stood, going to his uncle's side. Mario could see the nervous glint in his eyes as he spoke. "Regardless, I'm in."


	100. La Vendetta degli Amanti C

"It's a shame Clarice couldn't join us tonight," said Giuliano, adjusting his seatbelt over his muscular shoulder.

Angelo bristled in the driver's seat of the Cadillac Escalade, and Lorenzo shot him a sidelong glance and an affectionate smile, then turned to look over his shoulder at his younger brother. "And Fioretta as well," he said. "But of course, given that she's feeling sick... when is her due date, by the way?"

Giuliano smiled. "A month from today. We just finished the nursery."

Lorenzo chuckled. "How time flies. I remember when you found out she was pregnant. You were _inconsolable_. I had to reassure you that father wouldn't have you put to death."

"Y-_yes_, well." Giuliano cleared his throat as the car pulled into the parking garage and stopped at the ticket vendor.

Angelo rolled down his window and put the car in park so that he could lean out the window. He bent almost double to reach the machine and Lorenzo caught the back of his black leather belt to prevent him from falling out of the car.

Having retrieved the ticket, Angelo returned to his seat and smiled at Lorenzo, then as the gate lifted, entered the first floor of the garage.

"Turn this up, would you?" Giuliano asked as _Margaritaville_ began to play over the Escalade's after-market Bose speakers. Lorenzo turned the volume dial and the music grew incrementally louder.

"That will _do_, thank you," said Angelo as Lorenzo turned it up to an almost deafening level. Lorenzo grinned impishly and desisted, leaning back against the leather upholstery.

Angelo pulled into a convenient parking spot and turned off the car.

"I guess your eye infection is better," said Lorenzo over his shoulder with a charming grin. "Funny how you missed the conference this weekend but you're feeling perfectly fine now..."

Giuliano squirmed, his handsome face twitching into a grimace. "In my defense, I had a suffering fiancée to take care of," he said, brushing a lock of hair away from his face. "Anyway, you're not above a sick day yourself."

Lorenzo nodded, opening the door of the SUV and climbing out. "Acknowledged," he said. "But Giuliano, you hardly had to _lie_. You could have-"

"It was a _compulsion_," Giuliano said, getting out of the car and shutting the door.

Angelo pocketed his cell phone and led the two taller men from the garage. "You should get that looked at, I think," he said.

Lorenzo chuckled and wrapped an arm around each of his companions. The CEO was in high spirits; the company of his younger brother and his closest friend was a comfort, and the prospect of seeing Giovanni made it that much nicer.

The restaurant was only a short walk away. As the trio made their way down Mason Street, Giuliano's phone rang in his pocket.

He smiled upon seeing his fiancée's name on the display screen and answered the call, talking animatedly to her, falling in behind Lorenzo and Angelo.

"How are you liking the new intern?" Angelo asked, mouthing his lower lip as he took uneven steps at Lorenzo's side. It was difficult for him to keep up with the older man's long strides but after nine years he'd learned the pattern.

Lorenzo nodded. "He's very good. Sharp as a tack." A grin revealed straight white teeth. "I like his efficiency," he added, taking off his jacket and draping it over his arm.

Angelo smiled slightly. "I'm glad you like him. I knew you would, but..." He looked down at his hands, at the right wrist of his light pink dress shirt which was stained grey with graphite, and his stomach squirmed with mild guilt and embarrassment as he thought of the lunch meeting earlier in the day in which he had done little but write poetry in his legal pad. "I didn't foresee exactly how much."

With a chuckle, Lorenzo tugged a strand of his assistant's long, dark hair. "_Angelo_," he admonished, "are you feeling jealous, perhaps?"

"_Hardly_," Angelo groused, looking away from the CEO's eyes but leaning into the gentle touch as slim fingers caressed the back of his neck and then grasped his shoulder.

Lorenzo smiled benignly, looking down at Angelo. He was swarthy, with big brown eyes and a large hawk-like nose. His full lips were tight in a frown that faded when Lorenzo slid his hand down his upper arm and pulled him close.

"Fioretta... slow down, _amore_. What's happening with the... the elbows?" asked Giuliano distractedly as they passed in front of a pizza place and a copy shop near the intersection.

There were two buskers outside the copy shop, near a low wall. One of them was a girl with dreadlocks and a saw that she played with a violin bow, and the other, a young man, played a guitar. A number of pie tins were scattered at the man's feet. He sang an atonal protest song, and at seemingly random intervals kicked the pile of aluminum baking tins.

Giuliano frowned at the musicians and looked both ways before crossing the street toward the funeral chapel and the Philadelphia cheese steak shop; Lorenzo hung a left and headed more directly toward the restaurant, and unquestioningly Angelo followed him. The clanking of aluminum echoed off of the brick walls of the buildings.

An intense rustle of trees on the other side of the intersection alerted Lorenzo; he threw a glance over his shoulder and then whipped around upon hearing a startled yelp from his younger brother.

Two men had descended from the trees and each had a knife drawn; before Lorenzo could find his breath in his lungs or his legs beneath him, the taller of the two had plunged his blade into Giuliano's chest.

Lorenzo's voice came out strangled as he jumped the low concrete wall and ran across the street. "_Giuliano_!" he cried, and the larger of the two men turned on him, obscuring his view as Giuliano fell to the ground.

"_Shit_! Francesco, that's the wrong one!" The big man shot a glance over his shoulder and his eyes widened.

A trickle of red ran from the corner of Giuliano's mouth as he scrabbled backward in an awkward crab walk across the sidewalk in front of the chapel, shaking his head, pleading for mercy in weak voice. A swift kick brought his elbows out from under him and the shorter of the two armed men bent and drove a dagger repeatedly into the young man's torso.

"Lorenzo!" The cry came from across the street; Lorenzo did not turn, nor did he recognize the voice. His eyes focused on a knife in a sheath at the small of Francesco's back. A shuddering breath shook his chest and he leapt for the blade, pulling it free.

He raised it with the intent of burying in Francesco's kidneys but was startled by a bang as the door of a van slid open; several more men poured out of the vehicle and into the fray. He turned toward the big man who had first attacked him.

"_Lauro_!" It was Angelo's voice this time that cut Lorenzo's concentration. His jaw set, he turned, and not a breath later, felt stinging heat at the base of his neck from the side; he found himself face to face with one of the men from the van.

He wrapped his jacket tightly around his arm, using it as a shield; he blocked the man's thrusts and ducked around them, looking for an opportunity. There was a strangled groan from somewhere behind him.

"_Shit_," breathed the voice that Lorenzo had not recognized. Beside him stood a young man with the hood of a sweatshirt pulled up over his head; the profile and golden eyes were familiar.

Lorenzo's eyes widened. "Ezio?" He noted the sack in the youth's hand, which was weighted with a rock. He was almost amused as he parried, but his arm slipped; sickening cold bled through his body and he looked down in time to see a blade slide free from his own chest.

He met the eyes of the man who had stabbed him briefly before they closed in pain; the attacker sank to the ground and there stood behind him a second young man- one who looked like little more than a street punk, with his black hood obscuring his eyes- with blood shining on the edge of a blade that interrupted his fist. After only a moment Lorenzo looked down at the ground and saw a number of crumpled bodies, either knocked out or dead. Either was preferable to alive and attacking.

"Let's get you out of here, mister Medici," said Ezio, putting his arm around the older man, noting that Giuliano's attacker was nowhere to be seen.

A man jogged across the intersection toward them, and after a moment Lorenzo recognized him as the general manager of the bank, Giovanni's underling. "Frank? Where'd you come from?" The coldness filled his body still; he felt the heat of his blood soaking into the fabric of his French grey dress shirt. His lungs ached with the very effort of breathing.

"Mister Medici... I... I'm so sorry," he replied. "I called 911 and... and-"

"Enough. Help me get him back to the car," Angelo said as he worked the knife free from Lorenzo's hand. He threw a glance over his shoulder and nausea nearly got the better of him upon sight of Giuliano's bloody form; his knees weakened and threatened to give out.

Lorenzo began to turn around but Angelo forced him back. The CEO frowned. "What... what's going on? How's... what's going on with Giuliano?"

Altaïr knelt beside Lorenzo's brother, obscuring the mess that was his torso. The dark blue of his shirt was saturated with red. "Th-the ambulance... it'll be here soon. Get him out of here." He shook his head. "You shouldn't, ah... shouldn't move someone who's injured like this."

Frank wrung his hands. "Of course," he said, resting a hand on Lorenzo's back, following Angelo as he began to lead him away.

Ezio looked at Altaïr. "Are you-"

"_Go_," Altaïr urged. "I'll stay here with the..." He cringed. "I'll stay here and wait for the ambulance."

Nodding, Ezio went to Lorenzo's other side.

Lorenzo lay a hand on his chest and Angelo looked up at him with doleful brown eyes. "You'll be okay," he said gently. "It'll be okay... just... we've just got to get you to the car."

Ezio's body tensed slightly at Lorenzo's side; he tightened his grip on the sack he held. Suddenly there was a roar of fury behind him and he spun to see Francesco barreling toward them, limping with blood running down his thigh. "Get him out of here!" Ezio shouted to Angelo.

Angelo turned on the young man. "_Hey_!" He threw the knife to him and was terribly relieved when he caught it. Grasping tight to Lorenzo's arm, he hurried him away, and moments later, from behind them, he heard a cry of pain, followed closely by a second. He glanced over his shoulder to see Ezio wielding the knife and Francesco bleeding from his shoulder, scrambling up the low wall of a strip mall. Frank had collapsed against the wall, bleeding from a large wound in his torso.

"Get out of here!" the manager groaned.

A burst of sirens cut the air and Angelo felt his stomach clench; Lorenzo sagged at his side and leaned, bleeding and raggedly panting, against the wall.

Angelo shook his head. "We've got to get you to the hospital," he said, pulling his keys from his pocket. "It's not that far to the car. Come on, only a block more!"

Lorenzo groaned, looking toward the place where his brother lay. His view was blocked by an ambulance. "But... but Giuliano," he breathed. "Is he okay?"

"Don't look, Lauro! Just come with me." Angelo wrapped his arm tightly around Lorenzo's waist, awkwardly supporting him. Lorenzo grimaced and leaned against the shorter man, grasping his shoulder with stained fingers. Angelo could feel his clothes becoming sticky and wet with Lorenzo's blood as he led him away, toward the parking garage and the safety of the car. "We'll meet them at the hospital."

An EMT jogged over from the ambulance toward Frank, who had slid down the wall, leaving a long red streak on the stucco. "Hey... hey, pal," he tried, then looked up at Lorenzo. "Sir! Sir? You shouldn't leave, sir!"

Ezio shook his head. "Take care of him," he said, gesturing to Frank. "We'll get Lorenzo to the hospital in the car."

Utterly bewildered, the EMT called a partner over; by the time he could turn back around, Ezio was helping Lorenzo and Angelo cross the street.

"Hey... uh..." Ezio frowned upon realizing that while he recognized the assistant, he didn't know his name. "Hey!" he tried weakly.

Angelo grunted in response, gripping Lorenzo's belt as he led him into the parking garage. "What is it?"

"I could help you," Ezio offered, noting how heavily Lorenzo leaned on the shorter man.

"No, thank you," Angelo said gruffly. He was in a small measure of discomfort but he wasn't about to let go. "Unlock the car for me." He threw the keys blindly in Ezio's direction and nodded in satisfaction at the jingle as they hit his palm. "It's the red Escalade."

Lorenzo's breathing was uneven and painful; each step seemed to sap his energy. "Angelo," he breathed.

"Shh... it'll be okay," Angelo replied as Ezio ran ahead to open the doors.

When they arrived at the car, Ezio was sitting in the back seat on the leather upholstery. He helped Lorenzo onto the bench. Angelo swallowed hard and looked up into the CEO's brown eyes momentarily. Sweat and blood stained his grey shirt; there was a trickling slice on his neck and when Angelo opened his shirt he had to look away for a moment.

"Alright... a-alright," he said, coughing into his shoulder. "Out of this, please." He pulled Lorenzo's shirt down to his wrists and Lorenzo struggled out of it. "Uh..."

Ezio took the shirt from him, balled it up, and pressed it against the wound near the middle of Lorenzo's chest. "Just drive."

With a nod, Angelo shut the door and climbed into the driver's seat. He looked in the rearview mirror, concerned, as Lorenzo coughed into his hand.

"I can't breathe," Lorenzo said.

Angelo went pale and he fished in the pocket on the passenger's side door. He handed Lorenzo's inhaler to him and turned on the car.

Jimmy Buffett's voice played back at them over the large, loud speakers. "_Smell those shrimp, they're beginning to boil. Wasted away again in Margaritaville_-"

"_No_! No, no, no!" Angelo cried, turning knobs and pushing buttons in a panic until the music died out. His own breath was short as he pushed his hair back from his face and backed out of the parking spot. He pulled up to the booth and swore, digging in his pocket for change and rolling down the window.

The attendant's eyes widened. "Sir, are you alright?" she asked nervously. "Y-you're _bleeding_."

Angelo shook his head. He caught a glimpse of himself in the wing mirror; his hair hung in thick, sticky strands, wet with Lorenzo's blood. "_No_, it's fine, please just..." He shoved the coins at her, somehow unable to form further words. She took a moment to count the change and Angelo looked once again into the rearview, watching as Lorenzo used the inhaler.

"Do you need a receipt?" the attendant asked.

Angelo frowned at her. "_No_," he said, rolling his window up as the yellow and black gate raised in front of the SUV. "_Jesus_." He tossed a glance over his shoulder at Ezio. "Keep pressure on that wound!"


	101. La Vendetta degli Amanti CI

Ezio pushed his hood back, staring into the mirror in the hospital bathroom. His thick hair was once again falling from the tie that held it back, messily framing his face.

He looked into his own eyes, then down at his hands. They were covered in dark dried blood that collected in the lines of his palms and beneath his fingernails, in every crevice, every groove of his fingerprints.

It seemed to sink into his very bones, leaving him stiff and heavy, nearly too heavy to move. He shifted a foot unconsciously on the slick floor and his body jerked as if to fall over.

Beneath the overwhelming sick feeling, beneath the ache that wormed its way into his chest and coiled around his lungs, he felt rather harried. He could hardly blame Angelo for his concern but his voice had become rather tiresome on the seemingly interminable ride to the hospital.

Lorenzo had leaned on his shoulder, breathing roughly and fading in and out of lucidity, and Angelo had nagged Ezio to keep him awake, to keep him talking.

Ezio felt bad for the fellow. He had arrived at the hospital and insisted on leading the bleeding CEO in through the emergency room doors, and almost immediately he had been sent away by a nurse who told him he must shower before they would allow him to sit in the waiting room. Thus, Angelo had gone, dubiously leaving Ezio in his place.

He would return soon, Ezio was certain of it, thereby rendering his presence useless in addition to immobile.

With a grunt of displeasure he turned on the water and pumped the strong antibacterial soap into his hands, working the blood from his skin, scrubbing with the astringent liquid until his hands were all but raw; the stiff ache of his bones did not recede, and was instead exacerbated by the movement.

He pondered calling someone and realized with some horror that he had neither his phone nor anyone to call. The horror intensified when it occurred to him that he had hung his friend out to dry.

The image of Altaïr crouched beside Giuliano's body stuck in his mind. Blood coated his hands, too- blood that would likely be presumed upon sight to belong to the young Medici. Ezio recalled clearly the red sheen on the edge of Altaïr's knife, which he found himself thinking of as _evidence_.

It had been a grotesque scene, certainly, but it had been Altaïr who made it possible for Lorenzo to escape, wounded though he was.

Of course, he had had his own part in it; there was no point in denying it.

It was with a small measure of nausea and discomfort that he recalled the hollow sound of the rock hitting the temple of one of the attackers.

It hadn't been his desire to kill, but the stillness as the man dropped at his feet like an anchor had been almost satisfying.

He had no doubts as to the fate of Giuliano. Even in the confusion, the raucous noise and tangle of limbs- the cessation of the young man's life had been painfully evident. Francesco had not turned away from his target until his mission was thoroughly completed; he did not even notice the loss of his second weapon.

A sick pang twisted his stomach as he wondered just what had become of his father and brothers and something seemed to break in his core.

The rush of running water covered the hitching of his breathing as he stared at his hands, at the trickles of liquid that ran between his fingers, and some perverse part of his imagination saw it as blood, stark and _so very red_ against his pale palms.

The sudden feeling of a tear trickling down his cheek startled him, but certainly no more and likely much less than his surprise at seeing not one but two sets of golden eyes staring back at him in the mirror.

"_Ezio_." Altaïr's voice was gentle and strained, softer than Ezio had ever before heard it. The mechanic's strong arms wrapped around him and silently he held him, speaking no words as Ezio shuddered, hanging his head, baring his teeth and _sobbing_, bracing aching hands on the countertop.

Still the water ran, muting the sounds as Ezio exhausted his ability to cry. Altaïr leaned close, reached out with his blood-stained hands, and washed them in the sink silently, resting his head against Ezio's shoulder.

As Altaïr turned the taps, shutting off the faucet, Ezio looked up at him in the mirror. "What _happened_?" he asked. His voice was small, broken, hardly more than a whisper as if the silence were too precious to shatter.

"Lucky break," Altaïr replied, backing away, looking down at his sneakers as Ezio turned toward him, hiding his face beneath his hood. The black canvas of the shoes was visibly stiff from the blood soaked into it. He shook his head. "I was freaked out and the EMTs took me for the guy's friend-"

"Giuliano," Ezio said softly. "His name was Giuliano."

Altaïr nodded. "Giuliano." He rubbed his wrist, putting what seemed an inordinate amount of effort into not throwing up. "I feel weird calling him by his name, you know? I mean, I never even met the guy."

Ezio sighed, pressing back against the counter, sitting on the very edge of it. "It's not fair."

A harsh, cynical laugh caught in Altaïr's throat, choking him. He swallowed hard, smiling ruefully. "You're sorely mistaken if you think there's such a thing as fair."

A disgusted frown slowly built on Ezio's face. "What is there if not fairness?"

"_Kindness_." Altaïr shook his head, laughing wryly at himself. "Christ, I don't know where this is coming from." He took Ezio's shoulders in his hands and looked imploringly into his eyes. "Doesn't matter... just... Ezio, if you spend time relying on fairness, you take things for granted."

Ezio touched the scar over Altaïr's lips, running his thumb along it; he looked at his reflection in the dark pupils of shadowed golden eyes, noted the fear printed over his face. He took a slow breath and pushed Altaïr's hood back. "Do you take things for granted?" he asked.

With a measured sigh, Altaïr let go of Ezio's shoulders and turned away, going to the door of the bathroom and pulling it open. "Can't really advise against something if you haven't done it yourself, can you?"


	102. La Vendetta degli Amanti CII

Leonardo pushed a tangled strand of blond hair behind his ear and resettled his hat on his head as he got out of the car. He shut the door and pressed the button on the key twice; the locks clunked behind him.

"So, you know my boss?" Desmond asked, heading toward the back door of the bar.

"_Ma certo_!" Leonardo smiled, though the usual brightness in his manner was muted. "I have not seen him in a couple of weeks... he is _very_ sweet."

Desmond lifted an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder at the artist. "_Man_. You really haven't seen him lately. Don't say I didn't warn you, Leo." He opened the heavy metal door and let Leonardo in. The hydraulics hissed above their heads and the door slowly shut behind them. "Evening," Desmond called. "I brought someone to see you."

"_Oh_. How lovely." The voice came from the other side of the room, in an odd dejected tone; Desmond cringed, shoving his hands into his pockets. Quiet footfalls approached from behind a tall shelf in the stockroom. A small man peeked around the end and sighed quietly. "It's nice to see you, Leonardo."

He stepped out from behind the shelf, clutching to his chest a clipboard. He wore a black _coppola_ atop neatly-combed curls of a uniform dark brown. The olive skin of his face was reddened, the green of his eyes bright, contrasting starkly. Several days' worth of grey wiry beard glittered on his jaw line.

There was a moment's silence in which Leonardo tried to collect his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak and the man laughed at him. It was a bitter, scathing sound. "I make you speechless? I know. I make this of myself." He shook his head. "I'm only here to take the inventory, honey. Don't worry. I don't go out like this in front of the _customers_."

Leonardo shook his head. "_Honey_... I just... I do not know what to say. I have never seen you like this, _amico mio_."

Desmond cleared his throat. "I'm, uh... I'm going to get up there and relieve Paul, if that's-"

"That's fine." The owner of the bar nodded as if to dismiss the young man, and Desmond hurried away to clock in and wash his hands. "So, Leo. What do you want here?"

Leonardo's eyebrows bobbed. "_Niente_! I came to visit... I did not expect _this_," he countered, though his voice was gentle. "_Che cosa è successo_, Enzo? What happened to you?"

Enzo scoffed, looking up into Leonardo's blue eyes. "In my life? Way too much, honey." He started to turn away but Leonardo stopped him, touching his shoulder. He shook his head and his core tensed as he pulled free. "_Drop it_."

"But..." Leonardo frowned at the sudden fierceness of his friend's voice.

"_Amico mio_... clearly you are here for _something_," Enzo said, turning back toward the shelf and reading the labels of the various cases in it. He made a few marks on the sheet held on the clipboard. "Tell me, Leo... what troubles you?"

Leonardo swallowed hard. His stomach had suddenly begun to writhe as he recalled the day's events, piece by piece. "I could not bother you when you are upset," he said. "I... I will go talk to a-"

"_Bartender_." Enzo looked over his shoulder. A hint of a sardonic smile deepened the lines around his eyes. "I am a _bartender_, Leonardo. _Ascolto io_... _dimmi perciò_."

Over the span of a drawn-out breath, Leonardo's expression shifted; the set of his jaw lost its strength and his brow furrowed, his lips parted. He closed his eyes and groaned, and finally the levee broke.

In rapid breathless Italian, Leonardo told Enzo the events of the day, and the silent bartender did not stop him. After the first few sentences, he set down his clipboard and shoved his hands in the pockets of his flannel jacket, taking a seat on stacked cases of vodka.

Leonardo spoke in allusion and euphemism, explaining in the vaguest of terms the situation, quickly and without pausing.

When finally Leonardo's rambling stumbled to a halt somewhere near Ezio's declaration of war, Enzo nodded slowly. Leonardo watched him with some interest as he stood wordlessly and crossed the room.

There was a silence in the stockroom, broken only by the sound of Blur's _Girls & Boys_ playing in the bar proper, the clinking of glasses, the soft chatter of voices. Enzo sat behind a small desk in the corner, scratching his jaw, deep in thought.

"So this is what happened today," Leonardo said finally, his voice quiet, making it quite clear that his story had ended. It was obvious that he hoped for a response, an acknowledgement, and he seemed rather upset not to receive one.

Enzo rested his elbows on the desk and nodded once again as he mulled the situation over. "_Capisco_," he said shortly. He let his eyes rest on a blue jar that seemed to glow beneath the hanging ceiling lamp.

Leonardo frowned at his friend. "But... but _Enzo_," he pressed, then jumped as the clunking and crashing of the ice machine startled him.

"_Basta_! I have heard enough." Enzo rested his chin upon his hand, mouthing his lower lip thoughtfully. "Now, I don't want to fuck myself here." He looked up at Leonardo's blue eyes, and a smirk drew a corner of his mouth upward when he saw the puzzled expression on the artist's face. "Where are you staying, Leonardo?"

"Ah... well, I have not spoken to anyone about this yet," Leonardo said, fidgeting with the bottom edge of his T-shirt.

Enzo nodded. "Okay. Leonardo, this is what I will do." He slid a fingertip along the edge of the desk. "I will call on you tonight after I make some phone calls." He smiled patiently, briefly, at the sudden brightening of Leonardo's eyes. "Listen closely when I say I make _no promises_... but I have some things to check on. I cannot help you myself... but I might be acquainted with someone who can."


	103. La Vendetta degli Amanti CIII

The smell of blood seemed to have settled permanently into Angelo's nostrils by the time he arrived at the hospital.

He had rolled down every window of the Escalade in an effort to clear it out but the macabre odor hung dizzyingly heavy in the air; regardless of the chilly breeze he was glad to get out of the car when he arrived.

His dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail that dripped down the back of his neck; he had taken the shortest shower possible and had dried off only perfunctorily before getting into his clothes. His soft charcoal grey T-shirt clung to his still-damp skin.

The motion-activated doors slid open and he entered the waiting room. He adjusted his rectangular wire-framed glasses and shivered in the air conditioning as he crossed the lobby. "Hey," he said. "What news?"

Ezio looked up at Angelo, shifting on the couch. "No news," he replied. "They won't talk to me... privacy laws and stuff."

Angelo grimaced. "Alright, then." He turned away and purposefully went to the desk, and Altaïr threw a sidelong glance at Ezio.

"So who _is_ that guy?" he asked softly.

Leaning back in the chair, Ezio stretched his legs, noting with some displeasure the scattered dots of blood on the denim of his jeans. "Ah... he's Lorenzo's assistant. He's worked for him for a really long time."

Altaïr nodded. "He's really protective." He paused and set his ankle on the other knee, folding his arms over his chest, leaning his head on the low carpeted wall. "Are they together or something?"

Ezio shrugged. "If they are it's under the table. Lorenzo's married and has a boatload of kids."

"Mm." Altaïr looked up and gave Angelo a nod as he came around the corner. "Any luck?"

With the tiniest of smiles, Angelo adjusted his jeans, which were slightly too big and attempting to fall off of his hips because he hadn't taken the time to find a belt. "Yes. I'll be allowed in once he's in the recovery room. He asked for me," he said, with a hint of triumph in his voice, as he pulled up a plastic chair. He reached out and shook Altaïr's hand, then Ezio's, and sat beside Altaïr. "Thanks to you both, by the way. I'm in your debt. If you hadn't arrived... I hate to think of it."

It was as if a light had suddenly clicked on in Ezio's head. "I- I forgot, I forgot why we were _there_... m-my dad. My dad and my brothers are missing," he said.

Angelo's eyes widened. "_Shit_," he breathed. "You don't think it's _connected_, do you?"

Altaïr chuckled bitterly. "Man, you don't know this town too well," he said.

A frown settled on Angelo's face but he let the remark slide. He had bigger fish to fry. "Never mind that. How did you get here, anyway?"

"The cops gave me a ride," Altaïr said. "Lucky break." He sighed, rubbing his wrist. "I... I was sitting there with the..." He had to pause to swallow, frowning at the bitterness in his throat, closing his eyes momentarily.

Angelo's face paled, but he lay a hand on Altaïr's arm. "The body," he whispered. "I knew he was dead when he hit the ground."

Angelo's words did little to alleviate the ache in Altaïr's chest; in fact he was relatively certain it only increased as fingers gently curled around his forearm. He remembered only too well dealing with Kadar's body; this time it had been the bodies of two businessmen he didn't know, but it was no better this way. He had failed again and it _stung_, like a fire that burned away his throat, his lungs, his very body.

"Altaïr!" The call came from the door. He looked up to see Malik jogging toward him and his stomach clenched. He shrank into the chair, trying to disappear.

"Mal," he said quietly.

Malik reached him and with his fist tensed at his side, glared down at him with bared teeth. "I ought to _hit_ you!" he growled. "You sent me this _text_ that said you were going to the hospital! You could have been _hurt_!" He sighed through his teeth and stared into Altaïr's eyes, and slowly his expression softened until he squeezed Altaïr's shoulder and turned away to look for a seat.

Angelo stood and touched Malik's back. "You can have my chair," he said.

The doors of the waiting room slid open once again as Malik sat; Gilberto entered the room, brushing a few messy strands of auburn hair from his eyes. "Oh... good, you found him," he said.

"Yes, thank you," Malik replied, resting his hand momentarily on Altaïr's knee before moving it to his own lap.

Gilberto nodded, glancing at Ezio, who avoided his eyes, and then at Angelo, who had seated himself on the edge of a short table. "Where is Lorenzo?"

Angelo closed his eyes, hanging his head. "Hurt," he said shortly.

"_Shit_." Gilberto sighed, crouching at Angelo's side. He was almost afraid to push further. "And Giuliano?" he asked quietly.

"Dead." Angelo's voice sounded hollow, distant, as he wrapped his arms around himself, leaning on his knees. "And Frank Nori," he said, glancing up at Altaïr. "He's dead too, isn't he?"

Altaïr's jaw clenched as he shifted in his seat, his breathing becoming shallow and ragged as he nodded wordlessly.

Ezio looked up at Gilberto with golden eyes narrowed, as if challenging him, daring the older man to blame him; Gilberto, however, seemed to have little interest in blaming anyone. A compassionate frown settled on his face and he touched Angelo's knee. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Don't apologize," Angelo replied softly. "It's not your fault." He looked up at Malik, into the dark eyes that were focused on Altaïr. "I... it's not anyone's fault," he said after a moment.

Gilberto sighed, getting to his feet. He looked down at Malik. "I apologize, but I really must eat something... do you want anything?"

Malik shook his head. "No, thank you." He looked up at the older man, with whom he'd been in a car accident only days prior, and with whom he now found himself entangled. He felt rather indebted to him; they had started for the hospital in Gilberto's car only seconds after Malik had received the text message. "Do you need assistance?"

"No," Gilberto said simply, casting a pointed glance in Altaïr's direction, spelling out his thoughts wordlessly. He squeezed Angelo's shoulder momentarily and then headed toward the cafeteria.

Angelo shifted on the table, then stood. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shivering once again in the cold ambient air.

"Did anyone get in touch with Lorenzo's wife?" Ezio asked finally, quietly. His voice seemed to be muffled, held deep inside him.

"Yes." Angelo pulled at his T-shirt as if he were being strangled by the soft, thin fabric. "I sent her an e-mail." He grunted, rubbing the back of his neck, and then pulled the elastic tie from his thick hair upon discovering that his ponytail was off-center.

Altaïr rested his arms on his knees, staring at the cracked plastic edging of the table, at the ripped and warped edges of the magazines that lay there, and Angelo tried to tie his hair back again, frowning, then yelped softly as the elastic snapped at the back of his neck. He threw it down on the table, where it coiled like a worm.

There was quiet for a few minutes, disrupted only by Altaïr's weak breathing and the sounds of Angelo's feet pacing on the carpeted floor. Someone paged a doctor over the intercom and Angelo jerked, startled, and swore.

Gilberto returned with a few packages of cookies clutched in his hands, looking strangely guilty. He chewed his lower lip. "Uh... the cafeteria was closed," he said at the withering look given him by Ezio. "Do you want a cookie?"

Angelo grimaced. "Look. I'm sorry, but I really don't think all of us should be here," he said irritably. "Nothing's going to change at this point, and It's likely best if I _call_ with any pertinent information."

Ezio frowned. "Are you sure?" he asked, standing. He took Angelo's shoulders in his hands and looked down into his dark brown eyes. "You seem like you need someone-"

"I don't need _anyone_," Angelo said, standing on his toes to put himself closer to Ezio's height. "Thank you. I would like _you _to go somewhere that is _not here_ and I will call you." He pulled himself free from Ezio's grip and turned away.

Gilberto cringed. "Angelo-"

Angelo rounded on him. "I think that perhaps your collective efforts would best be put into the current affairs regarding Giovanni Auditore," he snapped, approaching the taller man. His voice became little more than a low growl as he stared into Gilberto's eyes. "I would hate to have to tell Lorenzo that his friend is dead _in addition_ to his brother!"

"_Ah_." Gilberto's eyebrows twitched upward and he turned to Ezio. "Point taken."

A young orderly stood a few feet away, as if afraid to approach. Angelo looked at him and his expression softened slightly. "Yes?"

"Er, is one of you mister... Ambrogini?" he asked, looking at the chart on the clipboard he held.

Angelo nodded, ignoring the mispronunciation of his surname and brushing past Gilberto. "Yes, that's me," he said.

The orderly cleared his throat. "Alright. Mister Medici is in the recovery room... he'll see you now."

"Oh... _excellent_, thank you," Angelo replied. "I'll be just a moment."

"Okay." The orderly turned and walked away to lean on the receptionist's desk, waiting.

Angelo returned his attention to Gilberto. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "Please, just go. Do what you can... I'll call you. Where are you staying?"

Gilberto looked helpless for a moment, but Ezio spoke up. "My house. We're staying at my house."

"Very good. I have your home number. I'll call when I have news." Angelo went to Ezio's side and touched his elbow. "I'm sorry I said that... about your father, that is."

Ezio shook his head. "It's just words," he said, squeezing Angelo's shoulder. "Go. We'll catch up later."

Angelo nodded and went to the orderly, who led him to the elevator. They waited quietly for it to arrive and stepped inside. The orderly pressed the button for the second floor and it lit up brightly under his finger.

"He's on Vicodin," said the young man after briefly consulting the chart. "So he's not likely to be too-"

"Lucid? I understand," Angelo replied.

The orderly nodded, exiting the elevator and leading Angelo down a hall. "As long as you know." He paused and rounded a corner. "Ah... he's been saying some funny stuff."

Angelo brushed his hair back from his face. "Like what?"

"Just... _funny_ stuff. Literally funny. He's had us all in stitches."

"Ah." Angelo nodded, unsurprised, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

The young man took him to the glass door. "This is the room... 223. We'll let you know if he has to be moved for any reason." He looked into the room and nodded. "He's asleep now, but he insisted we let you in."

A small, mirthless smile flitted over Angelo's face. "Alright. Thank you."

The orderly opened the door and Angelo entered the room.

It was dark, the only light coming in through the door. Lorenzo lay in the bed, quietly sleeping, and Angelo's stomach ached as he sat in the chair nearby.

So much had happened over the span of only three hours.

He took his glasses off and set them on the bedside table, opposite a waxed paper water cup that was sweating profusely; water formed a ring around the base of it. Angelo sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, resting his arms on the plastic bar at the side of the bed.

Lorenzo twitched on the mattress and grunted; a few strands of dark hair stuck to his sweaty forehead as he squirmed in his sleep. Angelo went to the cabinets and retrieved a small, soft hand towel, and with a furtive glance toward the door made sure that no one was watching. He sat at Lorenzo's side on the bed and bit his lip. After a moment's thought he quietly dabbed at the CEO's forehead with the towel.

His stomach made a few spare growling sounds and he tried in vain to shush it, but Lorenzo sniffed, patting and pawing at his hand.

"I'm sorry," Angelo whispered, flinching away.

Lorenzo looked up at him with half a dazed smile. "Angelo... don't apologize." He grunted, shifting backward in the bed and blinking in the low light. The IV pulled at his hand and he flexed his fingers, grimacing. "They let you in."

Angelo nodded. "They said you insisted," he said softly. He couldn't quash the relief that he felt upon seeing Lorenzo looking up at him, more or less healthy and _oblivious_, achingly oblivious to everything that Angelo had seen and heard.

"I wouldn't have wanted anyone else," Lorenzo said. "Anyway... it's convenient to have you here. You're, uh... you're small, you don't take up a lot of room in the bed."

Clenching his jaw, Angelo nodded. He opened the blue hospital gown to look at Lorenzo's chest, which was bandaged, and tried to ignore the tightness of his throat.

Lorenzo watched with some small measure of curiosity as Angelo examined the dressings of his wounds, listening to the growling of his stomach. "You're hungry," he said gently. "Did you eat?"

Angelo shook his head, suddenly becoming terribly interested in the ties of the gown, rolling the folded and stitched end between his thumb and forefinger. Everything was blurry without his glasses. Even Lorenzo's gentle, graceful hand was out of focus as his fingers brushed the hair from his eyes.

"You're crying," said the CEO, nudging Angelo's chin upward to look into his eyes. "What's the matter? Why are you crying?"

With a pained groan, Angelo curled his fingers around Lorenzo's wrist and pressed his cheek into his palm. As he closed his eyes a tear crawled down his cheek. "_Lauro_... I have something to tell you."


	104. La Vendetta degli Amanti CIV

"Turn."

It was eleven thirty and dark; the smoggy air around the yellow streetlamps was a muddy brown. Giovanni swallowed a yawn and gripped the steering wheel, staring blearily at the approaching headlights and red glow of taillights that preceded him.

They had been kept all day in the old apartment, bedraggled and waiting, and now Giovanni was tired and driving to some undisclosed location in the heart of the capital city.

Two streets away was the Medici bank, the main branch where Lorenzo had worked for a few months until deciding that he should work from home instead. He kept an office at the bank and occasionally dropped in, but spent the better part of his time in his large house an hour's drive away to the north. Giuliano and Fioretta lived in the suburbs, ten minutes' drive from the bank.

Giovanni frowned. Somewhere amidst the mind-numbing dullness of being locked away in a guarded apartment, guilt had begun to squirm in his chest.

He had hoped that he had been able to stop the fire from spreading but it seemed he had been unable to, and now the thought of what could have happened to Lorenzo plagued him.

Federico was bound and gagged in the back seat, making occasional sounds of discomfort and displeasure as the barrel of a Glock pressed deeper into his side.

Giovanni swallowed thickly, returning his attention to the road ahead, listening to Stephan's directions and following them.

Petruccio had been taken hours before.

They had taken the boy out of the Frozen Food Center before sunset; Giovanni had no idea how long it had been, because the infernal ticking clock on the wall was broken- only the second hand moved, counting nameless minutes and endless hours.

At the sounds of a struggle Giovanni had gone to the window; moments later Petruccio was brought out of the building, pushed along by men in black, into the back of the van. He had watched as it trundled away with his son inside, and felt helpless and weak.

They had caught him unawares, using his carelessness and complacency against him. It had been a very long time since he'd done this sort of business, and he hadn't expected to do it again, but now he longed for the blade he knew so well, the gun that fit snug in his hands.

He wondered if Maria would have done as he had. He could not see his wife in his place; indeed, it seemed antithetical to her character to allow herself to have such advantage taken of her. Giovanni cringed momentarily at the thought of what she would have to say to him for getting himself and their children into such a situation.

"Stop here," said Stephan as they pulled up in front of an apartment building. Giovanni parked and irritably jerked the emergency brake on. He sat as he was for a moment, pondering the ramifications of punching Stephan in his smug, masked face; his hopes were crushed as the walkie-talkie phone chittered and Stephan answered it. "Yes."

The thug opened the door and got out, and the back door swung open. Federico was dragged out of the back seat. He shot a defiant glare at Stephan, which fell flat due to the spittle-soaked rag in his mouth, tied around the back of his head.

Stephan yanked Giovanni's door open and pulled him out of the car, gripping his bicep hard enough to bruise. With his other hand he grabbed Giovanni's keys, then he kicked the door of the Mercedes-Benz shut and dragged Giovanni into the building with the other thug pushing Federico along behind him.

They were led in the side door and taken up a flight of steps; Federico growled under his breath as rough fingers grasped the back of his neck to keep him from falling up the stairs.

Stephan shoved Giovanni into yet another old apartment, hardly more than a hotel room. This one was trashed, with a single dirty bed in the corner; cigarette burns littered the dingy yellow-grey sheets.

Federico was unbound and manhandled into the room and the door was slammed behind him; the bolt clicked and with a disgusted grimace Federico untied the gag. He threw it down on the dusty table in the corner and sat heavily in a chair. A cloud of dust and dried-out foam billowed around the seat and Federico pulled a face.

"I'm sorry," Giovanni said quietly. "I had no idea this would happen."

With a slight nervous chuckle, Federico rubbed his rope-burned wrists and shook his head. "You keep saying that. We'll figure it out."

Giovanni grunted softly, sitting on a second moth-eaten chair and rubbing his aching shoulder. "_Yeah_." He closed his eyes and rested his elbows on his knees, wracking his brain. His stomach ached; they had not eaten since breakfast.

Federico shuffled around the apartment in hopes of finding some distraction, poking in closets, in the empty mouse-chewed cabinets, and coming up dry. He sighed and spun a tap on the kitchen sink, but the washers had been removed and it only made a loose skittering sound, rotating uselessly. "Just as well, isn't it?" he asked suddenly.

"_What_?" Giovanni frowned, looking up.

Federico stood in the doorway, leaning his head on the doorjamb and smiling sardonically. "There's nothing in here. Good thing, too. I'm hungry enough I'd probably eat anything- nice of them to starve us rather than poison us."

Giovanni quirked an eyebrow at his son but said nothing. The young man was shivering in the air-conditioned apartment; he folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

The sound of the street, busy even in the middle of the night, filtered through the barred windows; in the distance Giovanni heard sirens, and in the parking lot someone's car alarm went off.

There were footsteps outside the door- thick-soled shoes, likely with steel toes. A heavy fist pounded the door; the metal of the lock clattered and juddered, and the door itself wobbled as though it would fall from its hinges.

"_You awake in there_?" a deep voice asked.

Federico scowled at the door. "What do you want?" he called back.

"_Good. I'll talk to you in fifteen, then_."

The footsteps departed and Federico sighed, hanging his head. He looked toward his father as he crossed the room, then sat once again in the old dusty chair. "This is sick. You know that? What is this _about_?"

Giovanni grunted. "I told you: _money_. Money laundering, more specifically." He rubbed his face. "The Zaccardi have a lot of black money and they think I'll turn it white for them." A few strands of hair fell around his fingers as he rubbed his temples.

Federico grimaced, combing his fingers through his shaggy hair, throwing a glance toward the empty, grungy bed and quickly vetoing the idea of lying down. "_Ah_."

Suddenly everything seemed much clearer; if Giovanni were to get the government involved, the Zaccardi would, indeed, be investigated; however, the Auditore family would also come under scrutiny, and that wouldn't do. "So you called Uberto-"

"Who assured me that he would take care of it." Giovanni shivered and stood, going to a coat closet and pulling out a pair of dingy, aged blankets and throwing one to his son. "Wrap up. I don't know what they're going for here." He went to the thermostat and then turned away, noting with displeasure that it was locked. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, pulling it tight around his torso. The old, thinning fabric was as cold as the ambient air.

"They must be pretty serious about getting what they want." Federico draped the second blanket over his legs.

Giovanni sighed, rubbing his bruising bicep. He shut the closet door and leaned his back against the wall, staring out the small window at the high-rise across the street.

Federico cleared his throat. "I mean-"

"It would spread too far too quickly," Giovanni mused quietly. "If I had felt confident in my ability to contain it, I would have done as they asked and used leverage to fix the problem." He shook his head ruefully, then rested it against the thin, grimy wall. "That was the idea behind calling Uberto, but it may have been too little too late."

Pausing briefly, he shifted his feet on the carpet. His legs felt heavy and weak. "He may still come through, of course."


	105. La Vendetta degli Amanti CV

The phone rang insistently in the kitchen and Ezio swore, fumbling through the cupboards for it. It had been so long since anyone had used the landline that he had forgotten where it was kept.

When finally he fumbled it free, he pressed the "talk" button and shoved the handset against his ear. "Hello?"

"_Ezio, it's Angelo_." The voice on the phone was quiet and tearful.

Ezio's stomach squirmed. "Oh... Angelo, go ahead," he said, holding the phone against his ear with his shoulder.

Angelo sniffed. "_Lauro's okay. He's going to be okay. I told him what happened and he'll want to see you_."

Nodding to himself, Ezio twirled a ballpoint pen between his fingers. "I'm so glad he's okay," he said gently. "Should I come to the hospital?"

"_He's asleep_," Angelo replied. "_Tomorrow. He'll see you tomorrow_." He sniffed again.

Ezio frowned, leaning on the counter. "Angelo... do you need anything?" The doorbell rang and he jumped. After a moment he heard heavy footsteps heading toward the door and disregarded it.

"_No. I'll call you when Lauro's ready to see you_," said Angelo. "_I'm going to try and get some sleep_... _send me an e-mail if there's anything new. I'll be here all night but I'll get it on my Blackberry_."

"Okay... I'll let you know. Take care of yourself."

Angelo chuckled humorlessly. "_Sure. See you later_."

He hung up and Ezio frowned upon realizing he hadn't gotten Lorenzo's room number.

The door squealed and Mario's voice came from the doorway, bewildered and characteristically loud. "Can I help you with something?"

The answering voice was thickly accented, gentle, lilting. "Oh, ah... I am here to see Leonardo."

Ezio peeked around the kitchen doorway and lifted a brow. The owner of the downtown bar stood on the front porch, holding a shallow rectangular object covered in foil and looking puzzled. "_Zio_ Mario, this is... ah-"

"Enzo Martelli, _signore_," said the small man on the doorstep. "Leonardo came to see me at work and I said I would come over tonight to talk to him further." He looked around Mario's massive shoulder at Ezio and forced a smile.

"It's okay, _zio_ Mario, let him in," Ezio said. "Leo told me he was coming."

Mario frowned slightly and stepped back, then shut the door after Enzo entered the house. The bartender toed his shoes off and handed the object in his hands to Ezio. "_Grazie_, Ezio. Leonardo said you would be staying here, so I brought-"

"Enzo!" Leonardo looked around the end of the low wall near the staircase to the basement. "You brought food."

Enzo adjusted his hat and nodded. "It's a lasagna," he said.

Leonardo smiled weakly. "Ah... okay." He pushed his hair from his eyes.

"Don't _worry_, honey. I know you don't use cheese. I got a recipe from a friend." Enzo scratched his jaw, making a face at the thick stubble there. "Sorry, I didn't really have time to _shave_."

With a smile, Leonardo took the last couple of steps up to the living room. "_Grazie, amico mio_."

Enzo shrugged. "Don't mention it, Leo. Let's talk. I think I've got what you need."

Leonardo held up a hand. "Wait a second, _per favore_... there are others who should hear this."

He went back downstairs and Enzo sighed. "_Anticlimactic_, I think," he said, scratching his short scruffy beard again.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" Ezio asked from the kitchen. He had put the lasagna in the oven and now fumbled in the cabinets.

"No, that's fine, honey," Enzo said. "Can we sit somewhere?"

Mario gestured toward the table. The dining room was set up like a board room; extra chairs littered the floor. "Take a seat."

Enzo nodded, pulling out a chair, and took off his thick flannel overshirt. Beneath it he wore an old, faded black Joy Division T-shirt. He sat and rested his elbows on the table as several sets of footsteps came up the stairs.

Leonardo smiled at him, leading the pack. "_Okay_, I have them."

"Good. Before I start," Enzo said, and then went pale as he saw Gilberto bringing up the back of the small group. The color returned to his face after a moment, collecting in a flush on his cheeks, and he swallowed, his voice going slightly ragged. "Ah... before I start... Ezio, I'll take that _drink_, please!"

Gilberto gave him an odd sort of smile and sat at the other end of the table as Ezio brought out a chilled beer and set it on a coaster.

"_Grazie_," Enzo said, lifting the bottle to his lips.

Leonardo pulled out a chair and sat beside the bartender. "Enzo is here because he thinks he can help with the... _situation_ at hand," he said delicately.

Mario winced. "Leonardo, this is really-"

Enzo looked up at Mario, lifting dark eyebrows, and he quieted. "Believe me, honey," the bartender said, "I can help you. But if you want me out, I'll go."

With a slight sigh, Mario rubbed the back of his neck. "Well... I'm sorry for my reluctance, but-"

"_Thing is_, honey, I know the score already," Enzo countered, looking at the beer bottle in his hand. He drank from it, then set it down on the table, wrapping both hands around it.

Malik went to Enzo's other side and sat, looking up at Mario with a dark eyebrow arched. "I apologize for speaking out of turn, but he clearly knows the situation. Therefore, I think it might be prudent to hear him out."

There was a short pause, and finally Mario pulled out a chair and sat. "Fine. Let's go."

Ezio sat beside Leonardo, leaving a seat empty between himself and Gilberto, which Altaïr quickly occupied. "Des isn't here, of course, but we'll fill him in," the mechanic said.

Enzo shifted in the dining room chair, resting his arms on the table. "Alright. So, I have some friends. When I first moved out here, the, ah... the _patriarch_, so to speak, he helped me to get the bar running. I sold my apartment and he helped me to float the rest of the cost of living here. Anyway, they came here from New York a couple of years ago because of the eldest son... he is a baseball player. He got traded from the Mets and he plays here now." He sipped his beer and scratched his jawline, frowning.

Mario frowned. "_Continue_," he pressed.

"I'm getting there, honey," Enzo said. "Okay. So I'm in touch with the, ah... the third in command, I guess you could say. He owns a catering company. Good friend of mine. Now, I'm not supposed to say a lot yet and I'm not _really_ even supposed to be here, because he's got to ask permission from his boss before he can confirm."

"You realize what you're saying?" Ezio asked, frowning in dismay. His voice was a bit rough with nerves. "Y-you're saying we should bring in another mafia family-"

He yelped as Altaïr's foot connected with his shin, and a scowl formed on his face. Altaïr took him by the arm, cocking his head to the side, staring into his eyes. "I'd like to see you do better," the mechanic breathed.

Sighing, Enzo pushed his chair back. "Anyway," he said, and took another swallow of beer. "He says he thinks that his uncle will be willing to help."

Mario, who had been quietly taking this in, nodded and stood. "This would be the Romero family," he said matter-of-factly.

"_Sì, signore_," Enzo replied. "I see you are familiar with them."

With a nod, Mario leaned against the wall, folding his huge arms over his chest. "Indeed."

"I'm familiar with them as well," Gilberto added.

Enzo took a very long drink of his beer, shifting uncomfortably. "I know well the importance of family to the Romero," he said softly.

"And honor?" asked Mario.

"_Sì_." Enzo brushed a wayward curl from his eyes, tucking it behind his ear.

The oven timer went off and Ezio launched himself out of his seat and hurried into the kitchen.

Mario grimaced, watching Ezio for a moment before returning his back to the wall. "We can't make this work by brute force," he said. "They've got about five times the people we do, if not more... even if we're sent help, it won't work if we don't hit them where it counts."

"_Veramente_," said Gilberto. "And it has to be unexpected."

Leonardo sat quietly, staring at the grain of the wooden table, fingering the edge of a woven coaster, and Enzo touched his shoulder. "What troubles you, _amico mio_?"

"It is my _Ezio_," he said quietly. "He does not want to hurt anyone-"

"It's for the sake of his _family_," Altaïr pressed. "I'm sorry, but sometimes you have to do things you don't want-"

Ezio entered the room and set a few trivets down on the table irritably. He turned quickly and left the room once again.

Altaïr sighed. "Things you don't want to do," he finished. "Sometimes you have to swallow your pride."

There was a clank of metal against glass and then heavy footfalls; Ezio returned and set the Pyrex baking dish down on the table. "I already said I was _in_," he sniped. "I just don't understand why we have to bring other people in."

Mario took his nephew's bicep in a huge hand and spun him around. "You'd understand if you'd think for a second about what's going to be necessary," he said, leaning into Ezio's face. "_Nipote_, I am sorry. I can't do this myself. As much as I'd love to, I _can't_."

"There's too much information to process, too many places to be at once, Ezio," said Gilberto softly. "We're going to need everyone we can get."

Enzo's phone chittered in his pocket and he pulled it out and read the text message that had come in. He nodded slowly, replied, and returned the device to his jeans. "_Okay_. He'll be here early tomorrow morning to speak to you." He paused and looked up at Mario with a slight smirk. "We are go for launch."


	106. La Vendetta degli Amanti CVI

Midnight was well gone and Ezio sat alone in the basement, fingering the buttons of the Xbox controller and staring at the blank, inactive projector screen on the wall. The unseeing family portrait stared at him from across the spacious room and the small refrigerator hummed to itself tunelessly. The clock on the wall ticked away pointless wasted seconds and his stomach twisted unpleasantly as the sounds upstairs carried on- muffled footsteps thudded above his head and doors opened and shut with alarming frequency.

The door to the den thumped and squealed open and Ezio sighed out a tense breath through clenched teeth. "Who is it?"

"It's me." Altaïr shut the door and padded through the room. He stopped at the refrigerator and opened it.

Ezio grunted softly. "It would be. What do you want?"

Altaïr sighed and closed the glass door. "Leo's a mess, you know." He stood and rifled through a drawer. "This stuff's doing him in."

The words stung. Ezio grimaced as he heard the hiss of a beer bottle opening, the soft _clink!_ of the metal cap on the small countertop. "What do you want?" he asked again.

"Look. I'm sorry, Ezio," Altaïr said, crossing the room and sitting beside his young friend on the edge of the seat.

Ezio swallowed. "I never would have expected this from _you_," he said bitterly, clutching the controller, thumbing the d-pad. "Of all people. You don't have a _family_, Altaïr. You told me so yourself."

Altaïr chuckled humorlessly, examining the foot pedal of the drum kit. "Ezio... why the hell do you think I don't have a family?"

"Because you're a nasty street punk?" Ezio sniped. "I thought you ran away from your granddad, didn't you?"

After taking a long drink of his Fat Tire, Altaïr wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "I had a brother, Ezio." He lifted his eyes slightly, to the edge of the projector screen, staring blankly at the black plastic bar wrapped around the edge of the white sheet. "He wasn't really mine but he _looked up to me_... and I let him down, man."

He closed his eyes tightly and clutched the bottle in his shaky left hand. In his mind he could clearly see Kadar's smile and hear his voice, and it was with a queasy sort of jolt that he remembered the boy shouting his name as he fell from the window. It was so deafening that for a moment it surprised Altaïr that Ezio hadn't heard it too.

It was a relief when finally something happened in the den, forcibly extricating him from his memory and thrusting him into the present as if it were an ice bath.

Ezio's touched Altaïr's shoulder. "I... I didn't know," he said softly. "You never told me." He knew it was a stupid thing to say but it came out anyway and seemed to blunder around in the ambient air for a moment.

Altaïr finally shook his head after what seemed an interminable amount of time. "Nope." He stood and pulled at the thighs of his tight jeans, forcing the rumples from the fabric around his hips, then stretched his back, earning an obscene number of crackling sounds. "Goodnight, kid." He started purposefully out of the room and Ezio clambered over the back of his seat to grab his wrist, pulling him to a seething, pained halt.

"What happened to him?" the young man asked quietly, imploringly, as his fingers dug into the bones and tendons in Altaïr's wrist.

With little more than a glance over his shoulder, Altaïr pulled his arm free and walked away. "I don't know."

It wasn't precisely true, but it would do for the moment.

Altaïr opened the door and left the den, hurrying up the stairs to distract himself from the intrusive memory of hauling Kadar's heavy, bloody body into his car.

He'd thought ahead; the tarp in the back seat had done its job and it was because of this that the cloth upholstery had not retained the smell of death. But even so, the odor of blood on his hands earlier in the night had summoned unpleasant, demanding imagery that he had hoped one day to lose.

Malik had scarcely spoken a word to him since they'd left the hospital, but it was only for minutes at a time that he left his side. Indeed, as Altaïr reached the top of the stairs, Malik met him and gently, silently grasped his shoulder.

There was little need to speak in such a situation, but Malik saw the tears in Altaïr's golden eyes and his stomach clenched tightly. "What has happened?" he asked quietly.

Altaïr shook his head. "I... I was just talking to Ezio... he's kind of a wreck right now, you know?" He rubbed the back of his neck.

Malik frowned. "Altaïr, there is more to it than that. Your face is red; your eyes are wet. You are trying not to cry," he observed. "This is not compassion, Altaïr. These tears are not born of compassion. You have always been much better at crying for yourself."

"_What_?" Altaïr narrowed his eyes; his lips parted in a bewildered frown. "I... I don't even know what that _means_, Mal. What the hell does that mean?"

"I think that perhaps you were not _listening_," Malik said. "What troubles you, Altaïr?"

The gentleness in Malik's voice completely escaped Altaïr as he curled his hand tighter around the beer bottle he held; his other hand clenched into a tight fist, his fingernails stinging his palm. "I heard you," he snapped. "I heard you just fine. You're calling me the kind of jackass-"

"I am making an observation, Altaïr," Malik interrupted. "Objectively, I have noted that-"

"That I'm an asshole. Got it. Thanks for that observation, Mal." Altaïr pushed past him and headed toward the kitchen.

The fingers Malik laced through Altaïr's belt loop did not stop him; indeed, when the tenuous grasp of the stitches let go, the bottom end pulled free from his jeans with the sound of snapping threads. Puzzled, Altaïr looked over his shoulder in an attempt to discern what had happened.

"I apologize," Malik said, looking into Altaïr's eyes. "Nerves are high, are they not?"

After a moment, Altaïr closed his eyes and nodded resignedly. "I _like_ these jeans," he said weakly.

Malik sighed. "Family... it is an odd thing for us. It is an odd place in which we find ourselves. You are very dedicated to this notion... tell me why, Altaïr. You _hated_ your grandfather. This leaves me with only one notion and I am not entirely sure-"

"_You_, god damn it. Blood's got nothing on _reality_," said Altaïr into the mouth of his beer bottle. He lowered the bottle to his side without taking a drink and started once again toward the kitchen. "I didn't need _family_ if I had you and him."


	107. La Vendetta degli Amanti CVII

Leonardo sank into the puffy couch beside Gilberto, leaning back and laying his hands over his face. His neck was sore and his eyes ached; he had been awake for entirely too long and the stress was taking a toll on his body.

Gilberto gave him a sidelong glance. "_Senti_... what's on your mind?" he asked quietly. He could hardly hide that he felt similarly; his hands were tense from inaction, his shoulders stiff, his jaw tight.

"_Non c'è niente_," said Leonardo, muffling his words against sweaty palms, rubbing his eyes with the pads of his fingers.

Nodding, Gilberto placed a hand on Leonardo's knee and looked at their reflection in the blank screen of the television. They were quite a sight, he thought as he frowned in dismay at the lines on his face.

Moments passed in broken quiet. Mario typed furiously in the kitchen; Malik and Altaïr spoke in hushed tones in the spare bedroom. The stairs creaked beneath Ezio's feet as he ascended from the basement.

"Ezio," Gilberto said softly without even a glance over his shoulder, watching as the young man glowered at him in the darkened mirror of the screen. "How are you doing?"

He hardly needed to ask. Even in the relatively low contrast afforded by the reflection he could tell that Ezio's face was red, shiny with tears.

Ezio grunted. "_Fine_, thank you. You know. Other than the part where my entire family is at risk. That part kind of sucks." He pushed a wild strand of hair from his face.

Gilberto sighed, turning to look at him. "_Ezio_, it's being worked on-"

"And you've been nagging me all day to _do something_ about it, and you're sitting there doing absolutely nothing!" Ezio stood on the third stair, practically vibrating with rage as he wiped the wetness from his cheeks.

With a grimace, Gilberto looked into Ezio's reddened eyes; the irises flickered momentarily with yellow light like a guttering candle. "Ezio, I'd prefer if you didn't speak to me like that," he said evenly. "I'm sorry this is difficult for you. It's difficult for everyone."

Ezio curled a hand around the banister railing, avoiding the violet eyes that seemed to see through him. "Don't you _dare_ take that parental tone with me, Volpe!" he growled. "You're _not_ my dad!"

Gilberto frowned perplexedly, shaking his head. "Ezio-"

"Don't talk to me. I don't want to talk to you." He went upstairs to his old room and shut the door with a bang.

Leonardo leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. "I... I just do not understand," he said quietly. "Why does he hate you so?"

Gilberto shifted beside him, his stomach coiling in embarrassed knots. "_Ah_... I'm not sure," he said.

It wasn't entirely untrue. For years, Ezio had disliked and distrusted him, perhaps even hated him, much to the bewilderment of his parents; although Gilberto had attempted early in Ezio's life to ply him with affection and gifts, it had served only to make the boy like him less. There seemed to be little rhyme or reason to Ezio's feelings for him.

"Well, maybe... maybe things will get better," Leonardo offered, "once this is over. Ah... I am going to go talk to him... will you be here in the morning, _signor_ Volpe?" He got to his feet, taking his hat off. "I think once we have the instructions, we can get to work, _sì_?"

"Yes," Gilberto said. "I will see you in the morning, Leonardo."

Leonardo gave him a weak smile and went upstairs, and Gilberto curled up on the couch, pulling a throw pillow against his chest and closing his eyes tightly to block out the light from the ceiling lamp.

He buried his face in the pillow and inhaled, and tears stung his eyes. The fabric smelled like a number of things, a number of people, but it was a bittersweet feeling to discover that it smelled mostly of Giovanni.

Mario looked into the living room, leaning against the kitchen doorjamb. "Gilberto... how are you holding up, _amico mio_?" He took a sip from a mug of something that was likely enhanced with whiskey.

Gilberto sighed; the bitter smell of the alcohol permeated the air, threatening to evict Giovanni's scent from his nose. "_Wonderfully_," he said, without opening his eyes. "I live for abuse from your nephew. It's what gets me up in the morning."

"Some people use coffee," said Mario, crossing the room and sitting at Gilberto's feet on the couch. "I'm glad to know you prefer natural methods. It's better for you." He set the mug down on the glass tabletop with a clank.

Quietly chuckling, Gilberto tucked his legs closer to his body. "You know what caffeine does to me." He slid the pad of his forefinger along a swirl of embroidery on the shiny fabric of the pillow.

Mario let out a soft grunt of a laugh and rested a heavy hand on Gilberto's ankle.

The pair sat in silence for some time, and Mario was almost certain that Gilberto had fallen asleep when he spoke, his voice soft and muffled into the pillow. "We'll get him back, you know," he said, as though he were unsure of it himself.

"Of course we will," Mario assured him. "And the boys."

Gilberto nodded, burying his nose in the cushion, clenching his jaw tightly, curling a hand over his nose to better block the smell of the whiskey as it moved nearer.

Mario cleared his throat. "I heard from Maria," he offered, and sipped from the mug. "She's downtown at the shelter... I don't want her there."

"Paola will take fine care of her," Gilberto said softly. "I don't want her to be _here_, it's not safe for her here."

"Then we'll put her and Claudia at the ranch," said Mario.

Gilberto frowned, opening his eyes to glance over his shoulder at his friend. "But... weren't you attacked there? That's not exactly a _ringing recommendation_ for its safety, is it?"

Mario chuckled. "You have a tendency to underestimate Maria, my friend. It's infinitely safer." He grinned roguishly. "There's no _arsenal_ at the shelter."


	108. La Vendetta degli Amanti CVIII

"I'm so sorry, Mal. I didn't mean to tell him about... _him_. It just came out." Altaïr fidgeted, wringing his hands in his lap. His stomach seemed to do anxious flips as he watched Malik's eyes in the low light of the guest bedroom; he felt sick as he watched his expression harden slightly.

"I understand why you felt the need to tell him," Malik replied, "your tact notwithstanding." He shook his head and a sardonic chuckle died on his lips. "Altaïr, are you planning to ask my forgiveness yet again?" he asked quietly, instinctively dreading the answer.

There were a few thumping sounds in the next room, followed by an abrupt bang; the door to Ezio's bedroom rattled and Leonardo's voice carried in the hall in vicious-sounding Italian. He spoke for a few seconds, then paused briefly, and when he received no audible reply, grunted. "_Fine_!" he said. "If you want to be a _child_ you can stay there! Enjoy having more room in your tiny bed!"

Malik cringed, discomfited by the outburst. Heavy footsteps started down the stairs, then stopped; a few approaching thumps later, Leonardo opened the door and leaned into the room. "_Mi dispiace_, I am sorry you had to hear that, _amici miei_. I will see you in the morning."

"_Ah_... Leonardo!" Malik began, but the artist had already left by the time he could speak. He frowned and then closed his eyes, trying not to snicker as Leonardo returned once again to pull the door shut and then departed.

Altaïr sighed. "That was... intense," he said feebly, quietly, rubbing his upper arm.

With a nod, Malik folded his legs beneath himself. "Leonardo is occasionally intense." He rubbed his ankle, studiously examining one of the many rips in the fabric of Altaïr's jeans, and then almost reached for him; he paused after a moment, flushing slightly, and rested his hand on his own knee.

"Do you want me to?" Altaïr asked quietly. "Because I will."

Malik frowned. "_No_," he said, fidgeting with a short pulled thread in the comforter. "I tire of your constant apologies."

Altaïr sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Since the incident there seemed little to do other than to apologize, and this made it worse. He was uncomfortable talking about Kadar at the best of times and this was certainly not the best of times. It seemed somehow shameful to speak of him. He had spoken his name only a handful of times in the intervening year and every time it seemed to superheat his guilt and threaten to burn him alive.

They were quiet for a moment; Mario's voice was audible, barely, from downstairs, and then there was a knock on the door followed by quiet conversation. Desmond was back from the closing shift at the bar. Altaïr looked at the clock; it was three in the morning.

It was jarring when finally Malik spoke, calling Altaïr's attention away from the jerking second hand. "He is yours to remember too, you know."

A slight shy smile flickered briefly on Altaïr's face but he was silent, turning his gaze his knee. He chanced lifting his eyes discreetly to look at the other man's face; Malik's brown eyes were rimmed with red. It seemed to make sense to hug him, but he resisted the urge, deciding to reach instead for his beer bottle. He resettled himself on the bed and took a drink, and as he was distracted, Malik's fingers found the edge of his T-shirt, curling gently around the thin, worn fabric.

"You are a terrible liar," Malik said, unfurling the unstitched edge of the shirt with a finger and letting it go. "You are lucky to have the _balls_ to make up for it."

Altaïr nearly choked on his beer. "_Excuse me_?" he said with an incredulous laugh, wiping his mouth on his wrist.

Malik's mouth twitched into a smirk, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. "At breakfast. A knife fight, Altaïr?" He touched the scar on Altaïr's lips, tilting his head. "A curious thing to call that incident."

"I've been in knife fights," Altaïr said defensively, shifting awkwardly, trying to ignore the flush that built on his cheeks as Malik's thumb brushed along his lower lip. "I've got scars from knife fights." Even as Malik's hand left his face he could feel the lingering warmth of his fingers.

Malik slid the bottle from Altaïr's hand and sipped from it, then grimaced at the taste of warm beer. "Yes, Altaïr, you do," he said after a moment. "This is not one of them. You lie about strange things."

Altaïr hung his head. "Yeah. I know." He paused, watching as Malik read the label of the beer bottle. "Do you want one?"

"I would drink a beer, yes," said Malik, avoiding Altaïr's eyes as the bottle was taken from him, sliding free from his sweaty palm; his fingers were slightly stiff, and he realized with mild horror that he was nervous. "As long as it is cold," he added, after a slightly awkward amount of time had passed.

Altaïr stood and took a drink. "I'll get you one," he said, touching Malik's shoulder. He briefly turned his palm upward to touch his jaw; he slid his thumb over Malik's cheekbone tenderly before turning away to leave.

Malik heard the smile in Altaïr's voice and it made his stomach writhe uncomfortably. He still liked that smile more than he could fathom and found himself terribly disappointed that he hadn't looked up to watch it form on his face, building in the shallow creases around Altaïr's eyes and lifting the corners of his lips, imparting a curious curve into the scar.

Instead he watched the door swing open, watched Altaïr's feet as he shuffled out of the room.

It had been a very long time since he'd thought very deeply about that scar over Altaïr's mouth, little more than an almost-vertical stripe of white intersecting his dark lips, but it took very little effort to conjure the memory as he listened to the quiet footfalls down the stairs.


	109. La Vendetta degli Amanti CIX

Malik sat cross-legged on the twin bed in Altaïr's room, daubing the persistent trickle of blood away from his friend's mouth as it rolled down to the point of his chin. At his knee sat a few unused bandages and a handful of cotton balls, some dry, the rest soaked in hydrogen peroxide and pink with blood.

Kadar sat in the corner, watching his brother with wary grey eyes, silently leaning against Malik and Altaïr's hurriedly-packed soft-sided suitcases. His hands idly toyed with the strap of his bag, which he held in his lap.

Late afternoon red-orange sunlight poured in through the window behind Kadar. Malik watched Altaïr's eyes, their peculiar golden hue flickering as he sat still as death, fuming, breathing roughly and gripping the worn-out comforter, staring through him.

Malik was almost afraid. Indeed, he would have been only a couple of years prior, but Altaïr was not violent- never with him, anyway. He was only a bit volatile at times and prone to verbal outbursts.

He had just turned eighteen; Malik was seventeen, less than six months younger, and Kadar merely fourteen. A year and a half prior, following a strange sequence of increasingly awkward, tense interactions with Malik and Kadar's adoptive family, they had moved in with Altaïr and his grandfather, but that had proved nearly as uncomfortable and it seemed that Altaïr had had enough.

"Where will we go?" Malik asked, doing his best not to flinch away as a deep animal growl rumbled in Altaïr's throat. He flinched anyway, and instantly regretted it.

Altaïr shoved his hand away, touching the deep cut over his mouth with a finger and hissing through his teeth in pain, his nostrils flared and eyes narrowed. "I don't _know_, okay? We'll find somewhere." He shook his head. "I'm not going to live here, it's not safe here."

Kadar's voice was hardly more than a whisper as he clutched his duffel bag against his chest. "I am sorry, brother," he said. "I never meant to get you in trouble."

"No... don't apologize," Altaïr said, and his voice softened as he looked at the boy. "It's not your fault, Kadar. I'm sorry that _rat bastard_ had to yell at you."

Malik's hand approached once again and he wiped away the rivulet of blood on Altaïr's chin. He was silent and gentle, watching golden eyes and holding Altaïr's wrist with his other hand.

The quiet approach of footfalls seemed to alert Altaïr's senses; he wrenched his arm away and glanced at the door to make sure it was locked, but the footsteps continued down the hall and he let out a sigh of relief.

"If you will pardon me," Malik began, but when it became clear that Altaïr would not pardon him, he quieted, clutching the dripping, rapidly cooling washcloth.

After a moment, Altaïr's wild eyes traveled back to his friend and after another moment, his expression shifted to something gentler. "I'm sorry. What were you going to say, Mal?"

Malik swallowed and wet his lips nervously with his tongue before speaking. "There is an apartment complex not far from here. I can get a job; we can perhaps find an apartment."

"I've been saving," Altaïr replied quietly, displaying a thick stack of folded bills and replacing it in his back pocket as he looked over his shoulder at the window. "Knew we'd want to get out of here sooner or later; just didn't know it'd end up being now." He curled his fingers around Malik's hand, lifting it gently and returning it to his jaw, where a drop of blood clung tenuously to his skin, threatening to fall onto his jeans.

Nodding, Malik held the wet washcloth against his friend's chin, looking at him with an odd sort of admiration and deep gratitude as he carefully pieced together the exact reason he found himself in this situation.

He had been downstairs studying when he'd heard a glass fall and break; he had paid it no mind until the shouting started, and by the time he could free himself from the tangled cords of the laptop and his headphones and make his way up the stairs, the confrontation was over; all that remained of Altaïr's grandfather's presence was the lingering tension that hung in the air.

He'd found Kadar trembling and scared, sweeping the broken glass from the tile kitchen floor into a dustpan and Altaïr leaning against a cabinet with a hand over his mouth, practically vibrating with caustic rage. When Malik pulled his fingers away from his jaw the blood flowed freely, dripping onto his black Pantera T-shirt, soaking into the fabric.

"He hit you with his ring," Malik said finally, conclusively, as he pulled the cloth away and dabbed at the wound with peroxide. It fizzled slightly and Altaïr winced. "He backhanded you... am I right?"

"_Fuck_, ow... yeah, what about it?" Altaïr reached up to touch the dripping liquid but Malik batted his hand away, frowning at him. The footsteps returned and the door handle jiggled. Altaïr's eyes widened and he scrambled off of the bed, wiping the foamy diluted blood from his jaw. He looked at Kadar and pushed the bedroom window open, pushing him toward it. "Kadar, _out_... get out!"

A few muffled words bled through from outside the thick door and Malik went to the window, watching as Kadar climbed down carefully and nodded up to them. "Are we really doing this?" he whispered incredulously, casting a glance at Altaïr.

Altaïr nodded. "Yeah." He clipped his car keys to the handle of Kadar's silver-grey duffel bag and threw it out the window to him, grunting in satisfaction as he caught it and dropped it at his feet. "You trust me, don't you, Mal?"

Malik frowned. "_Yeah_," he replied after a moment's thought, watching as Altaïr threw another tightly-packed bag out the window into Kadar's waiting arms.

"Well, _good_, then," Altaïr said with an abrasive laugh, shouldering the computer bag and picking up the last bag of clothing. "Glad we're on the same page. Now help me get this shit into the car."


	110. La Vendetta degli Amanti CX

Malik was quiet when Altaïr returned to the guest room, open brown glass bottle in hand, bare feet shuffling on the soft carpet.

He was about to leave so that he wouldn't disrupt the other man's thoughts but Malik smiled at him. "Sit," he said softly and gently, "but close the door."

As Altaïr pushed the door shut, there were a few scattered sounds over their heads- footfalls on the roof, delicately picking their way across the shingles.

An amused smirk flitted over Malik's face. "I think someone is going for a walk."

Nodding, Altaïr crawled into the bed and pressed the bottle into Malik's hand. He was uncharacteristically quiet as he settled himself against the headboard at his left; he searched for something to say but found every word desperately wanting. Malik's sudden placidity seemed somehow misplaced and strange, and it confused him.

Malik gave him a sidelong glance, resting the mouth of the bottle against his lower lip for a moment before taking a sip. He clenched his jaw briefly, then took another, longer drink and set the bottle down on the bedside table. "It is funny how plans do not work out," he said quietly, looking down at Altaïr's knee. It was just out of comfortable reach and it annoyed him almost as much as the sudden, stupid desire to wrap his arm around Altaïr's shoulders. "Do you remember how long it took us to get our first apartment?"

"It's just as well," Altaïr said quietly. "I didn't have three months' rent anyway." He looked over to Malik and was startled when their eyes met. "Ah... and it gave you time to get friendly with that social worker, remember?"

Malik turned his body slightly and slid his fingers along the outer seam of Altaïr's jeans. "It would not have worked if I had not had the chance to turn eighteen. We were fooling ourselves, were we not?" With a small smile, he looked down at his hand as he traced the thick folds of denim at Altaïr's hip. "There were times when I did not think..." He trailed off, pushing the rumpled fabric of the other man's T-shirt out of the way and caressing the thick muscles below his ribcage.

Altaïr nodded, wrapping a hand around Malik's upper arm, shivering in the chilly air of the small room and watching the twitching of dark eyelashes as Malik took in the shapes of the muscles of his torso. His T-shirt was pushed up around his chest and the skin of his abdomen was covered in goosebumps; he couldn't decide whether this was the product of the air conditioning or of Malik's touch, gentle and demanding at once.

"It was, of course, due in large part to you that we succeeded," Malik said quietly after a time, sliding his hand further up, pinching a nipple roughly between his thumb and forefinger.

Altaïr drew a sharp breath through his teeth, stroking the back of Malik's neck, squirming at the gentle twist of sensitive flesh. "You're the one who did all the legal work," he replied, tilting his head back, sighing quietly as Malik pressed his lips against the base of his neck.

Malik's lips moved against Altaïr's sweat-salty skin as he spoke, his fingertips trailing down his ribcage. "This is true... but you were there." He undid the button of Altaïr's jeans and looked up at his face, and a naughty smile glittered in his eyes; he slid slightly downward and kissed Altaïr's stomach hotly, carefully working the zipper.

He opened his mouth to speak again but paused at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs; he looked over his shoulder in time to see the door open. With a momentary flicker of nervous irritation in his brown eyes he turned on his back, staring up at Desmond, who stood in the doorway, looking tired and bewildered.

"Uh... sorry," said Desmond sleepily, pulling the door shut; his footsteps descended the stairs shortly thereafter, thumping dully on the thick plush carpet.

Malik frowned perplexedly, rolling over to rest his head on Altaïr's hip. "_Ha_... that was slightly embarrassing," he said, fingering a bare white cotton thread traversing one of the larger holes in the thigh of Altaïr's jeans.

Altaïr nodded, moving downward to lie back on the bed and tangling his fingers in Malik's thick, dark, sweat-damp hair, resettling the other man's head on his shoulder. "Y-yeah... sorry. I should've locked the door." He watched Malik with interest, sensing more than seeing the mischievous smile that formed on his face, and couldn't hold back a slight chuckle. "Mal... what are you thinking about?"

With a glance upward into Altaïr's golden eyes, Malik dragged his fingertips along the rumpled hem of his T-shirt, pushing it up further to expose his chest. "There is not a single person in this house," he said, "who does not know that we are fucking." He smiled, pulling his legs under himself and sitting up, affectionately caressing Altaïr's side and watching as goosebumps once again raised his skin.

"I..." Altaïr's cheeks flushed and he propped himself up on his elbows. A slightly embarrassed smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "W-well, yeah, you're probably right. What's... what's on your mind?"

Malik stood and went to the door, glancing over his shoulder as he turned the bolt. It fit into the lock with a soft scrape of metal on metal and finally a click. "I see little reason, therefore, that we should deny ourselves the pleasure." He turned and leaned his back against the door, tilting his head encouragingly. "That is, provided you are interested." With a slight smirk he moved as if to cross his arms; his expression shifted to a nervous frown as he slid his hand into the pocket of his jeans, sighing out a held breath.

Altaïr watched him, trying to ignore the slight twinge in his stomach, and with a brief nod, reached for the bedside table. After a final, momentary glance upward into Malik's eyes, he braved a smile and turned off the lamp, bathing the room in darkness.


	111. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXI

Malik woke to the sound of clattering dishes and for a moment, struggled against the densely-muscled chest against which he was held.

Altaïr's arm rested heavily on his ribcage, clutching him tightly. The mechanic was warm, relaxed, and _snoring_.

With a disapproving grunt, Malik shifted himself free from Altaïr's grip and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked over to the clock on the bedside table and blinked a few times in order to clear his vision. It was seven in the morning and as his senses awoke he ascertained that someone was cooking breakfast.

It was only a moment later that he heard a loud banging sound and a short stream of rapid oaths in Italian; he realized thereupon that it was Leonardo who occupied the kitchen.

"Mal," Altaïr mumbled drowsily, and reached out for him, pawing at his thigh.

Malik looked up into the mirror on the dresser against the wall and caught himself smiling. "Wake up, Altaïr," he said softly. "It is the morning... there is much to be done." He scratched the dark stubble on his jaw, then covered his mouth as he yawned. "And you were also snoring. This is troublesome."

Altaïr grimaced, then curled a hand over his face and yawned. He slowly opened his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he did so. "_Ha_... sorry. You're not wearing much," he observed, taking in the sight of Malik's bare backside as he stood.

With a glance over his shoulder, Malik crouched to pick up his briefs. "I am aware of this, yes. You are rather undressed as well." He smirked briefly and dressed quietly, listening to the cacophony downstairs as he did so.

Leonardo could be heard rattling about in the kitchen and one half of a conversation was audible; Mario was speaking to someone at great length in the living room. Ezio thumped around in the next room.

"Hey," said Altaïr after a time, as Malik fussed at the crumpled collar of yesterday's shirt. He looked up and Altaïr smiled gently at him. "I, uh... we're going to have to get some clothing, huh?"

Malik nodded wordlessly and went to the door, then glanced over his shoulder. "First, I think it is much more important to commence with business. I will see you downstairs."

Altaïr bit his lower lip and watched Malik's hand wrap around the doorknob. "Ah- _wait_."

With a frown, Malik let go of the doorknob and turned; in a second's time Altaïr was in front of him, holding his shoulders gently with rough hands. "Altaïr-"

"Mal, I... fuck it, never mind," Altaïr said, and with that leaned in and kissed him firmly.

"_Mh_!" Malik chuckled quietly and grasped the back of Altaïr's neck, allowing himself to be held against the door, relishing the familiar tight soreness that lingered still between his legs.

It was with some hesitation that Altaïr pulled back, but Malik smiled at him and he returned the smile eagerly. "That's what I wanted," he said, and Malik nodded and opened the door.

When they arrived at the base of the stairs there was some commotion in the kitchen. Leonardo was, indeed, cooking breakfast: something sizzled away in a pan on the range and the coffee maker chortled quietly on the counter. There was a plastic pitcher near the sink; inside it sat a can of thawing concentrate. The cardboard sleeve was dark and splotchy with condensation.

"Leonardo," Malik began, but the artist clicked his tongue and set about cutting into a plastic package. It was obvious that he had slept little; his eyes were red and his hair disheveled, his hands shaking as he made awkward use of right-handed scissors.

Altaïr took Malik's arm and nudged him toward the living room, and Malik followed reluctantly; as they entered the room Desmond sank into a chair, wearily pressing his head into a pillow retrieved from the depths of some linen closet or other.

The doorbell rang and Mario thundered through to answer it only to find a small Sicilian standing outside, red-eyed and exhausted and clutching what looked suspiciously like a large box of doughnuts.

"Good morning," Enzo said with a slight smile. "I brought food. Again."

He was clean-shaven now, and his hair hung in thick black curls, a couple of which dangled over his forehead.

Mario took the box from him and examined it before deeming the contents acceptable for consumption. "Come on in... where's your friend?"

The bartender stuck his hands in the pockets of his blue denim jacket, stepping into the house and toeing off his thick-soled black sneakers. "He's on his way." He was about to nudge the door closed when the engine of a sports car roared down the gravel drive; he tossed his hair from his eyes and chuckled. "He's here," he corrected.

The engine shut off and the driver's side door opened; out of the low car climbed a broad man wearing dark sunglasses and a grey pinstriped suit, holding a very tall, thin can of sugar-free Red Bull.

He shut the door and pressed the button on the remote. The headlights flashed twice and he pocketed the keychain, sipping from the can. "Nice house," he said as he approached on the cobblestone footpath. His voice was colored by a thick Bronx accent, and it seemed that every atom of his body was stamped _made in New York_. As Mario held the door for him he stepped into the house and took off his sunglasses, examining the taller man with some interest.

Mario nodded. "It's my brother's." He paused, looking down at the newcomer's polished leather shoes and then at the thin can he held in a large hand. "I'm-"

"You're Mario Auditore," said the man, shifting the items he held into his left hand in order to shake Mario's hand. "I know quite a bit about your family." A charming smile crinkled the corners of his amber eyes. "Gianpaolo Romero. I think I can help you out."


	112. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXII

"You're _kidding_." Shaun stared at the dreadlocked girl in disbelief, shifting the strap of his messenger bag on his shoulder. "No, you simply _can't_ be serious," he said through his teeth, staring at her through thick glasses.

The girl shook her head, casting another glance over her shoulder at a rack of glass jars full of many and varied small shapes of muted color. "No, I'm sorry."

Shaun took a long, deep breath, fumbling in his pocket for his antacids. "You're a bloody _teahouse_ and you don't have Earl Grey. Is it some kind of _statement_ or something? Some kind of _anti-authority_-"

"Sir, as I said, we're _out_. We don't get a shipment until Monday." She frowned apologetically. "We have over thirty other teas, an English Breakfast might-"

The withering, pitying scowl that formed on Shaun's face forced the girl to silence. She exhaled, sliding her fingertips along the edge of the counter. "I'm very sorry," she said finally.

Shaun was about to reply when he heard something infinitely more interesting behind him.

"I just can't believe he got _stabbed_."

The voice came from one college-aged girl who sat across from another. The young woman at the counter started to speak again but Shaun held up a hand to stop her. "I'll, uh... I'll just have a grapefruit Izze, thank you," he said.

"I _know_," the other girl at the table intoned. "I heard he was in critical." She brushed her long blond hair back from her face, pushing a sheet of shimmering gold over her shoulder. "I guess it was pretty brutal."

The first girl shifted in her seat, pushing her glasses up her nose. "I think he got stabbed, like... nineteen times or something like that." She took a sip from a brown glass bottle of organic root beer and dangled her ballet flat from her toes.

The blond girl winced. "Do they think he's going to live?" She traced the edge of the cup with her fingers, letting her eyes drift up toward the ceiling. "It's really awful."

"I guess they don't know. There were a couple of other guys who _died_, so I guess he's kind of lucky, as these things go." The bespectacled girl rolled the edge of her bottle along the table, chewing her lip thoughtfully.

Shaun frowned, turning back toward the counter and paying for his drink. "Er, pardon me... but to whom are they referring?"

The girl hit a few buttons on the register. "You know the Medici bank?" she asked idly, shaking her head and canceling the order when it rang up wrong. "It's in the papers, the CEO got stabbed last night. Not far from here." The cash drawer banged open against her hip and she counted out the change, looking up at Shaun with a frown as his expression twitched to one of panic. "Are you alright?"

"J-just fine," Shaun replied, taking his change. "Thank you." He took the cold glass bottle from the hammered metal countertop and departed, heading down the stairs.

Rebecca sat quietly at a table, one leg of which was propped up by an old rolled-up newspaper. Regardless, the tabletop shifted as she rested her elbows on it, leaning over to stare intently at a textbook. Her blue headphones glowed in the relatively low light; a lamp lit the opposite corner of the room and mid-morning sunlight filtered in through the old upholstery curtains over the windows. The glow of her unattended laptop lit her profile.

Shaun shuffled across the floor; the flat soles of his old loafers dragged on the carpet. "Rebecca."

Without regard to her friend's presence, Rebecca sipped from a tall blue glass bottle, knobbled on the sides and full of sickly-sweet liquid. She returned her attention to the book in front of her, resting her chin on her hand.

"_Rebecca_." There was a strange sort of pouting tone in Shaun's voice as he jiggled the edge of the table.

The girl jumped and looked up at him. "_What_?"

"The Medici banker's in the hospital," Shaun said, wrapping a hand around the neck of his soda bottle and twisting the cap off. The carbonation fizzled and spat as he dropped the cap with a _clink!_ on the table.

Rebecca's dark eyebrows bobbed. "_Shit_, what happened?" she asked.

Shaun shook his head. "Stabbed," he said. "There are some budgies chattering on about it upstairs. I'm not sure I would trust the source, but-"

Waving a dismissive hand, Rebecca pushed her book away and pulled her computer closer. She typed a few words and waited for the search results to return. "Yeah, I've got it," she said. "Lorenzo Medici stabbed in the chest... brother Giuliano stabbed _nineteen times_, coroners say..." She paused, scanning the thick block of text on the newspaper's website. "Francesco Nori, general manager of the bank, also stabbed to death... suspects unnamed."

"Does it say anything about his condition?" Shaun took a seat across the table from Rebecca, sipping from the tall glass bottle he held.

Rebecca shrugged. "It doesn't say much... he's stable I guess." She gave Shaun an appraising once-over. "Why do you care so much?"

Shaun shook his head. "Oh, it's... it's nothing, really," he said, pulling the roll of antacids from his pocket and peeling back the paper.

Neither said anything for a moment, as Rebecca continued reading the story. She frowned after a moment, looking over the top edge of the laptop. "The bank has a branch in London?"

"Well, naturally. It started in Florence and spread from there. That's what makes this town so bloody convenient for me." Shaun took another drink of his Izze. "I didn't have to change banks." He scratched the stubble on his jaw, leaning back in his chair. "You see, it's a very old institution... and when Cosimo, the, ah... the grandfather, moved out here with his family, the foremost branch was relocated. It's been here since."

Rebecca nodded, tuning out the history lesson and taking a swig of her energy drink. "Gotcha," she said dully, pushing a strand of hair back from her face.

"And then with, er... with Lorenzo taking over, they started to offer scholarships to..." Shaun cleared his throat. "To _gifted students_." He paused, waiting for recognition to dawn on Rebecca's face; when no such thing happened, he frowned. "Including yours truly, of course."

"Wait." Rebecca narrowed her eyes at him. "You care because they're giving you money?"

Shaun sputtered incoherently for a moment. "_Certainly not_! I mean, of course, this is how I became... acquainted... with..." He fumbled for words and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I..."

Rebecca snickered. "Yeah. I thought so."


	113. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXIII

Gianpaolo had not expected to wait quite so long to speak to someone in authority.

He found himself in the kitchen of _Casa Auditore_ with an ever-increasing amount of food laid out for the taking on the counters and tables, occupying any available space, and to calm his nerves, took a toasted bagel and sat beside the small Sicilian bartender at the table.

Enzo held his face in his hands, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. His dark hair hung around his temples as he leaned down over his knees; his open denim jacket covered his thighs.

Gianpaolo sniffed and frowned at the overwhelming scent of flowers. He tugged at a strand of Enzo's hair. "You're feeling better," he said with a slight smirk.

"I... was awake until _four_," said the bartender into the sleeve of his jacket, "to dye my roots." He combed his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face as he sat up. "Do not speak to me about this _feeling better_."

"You shaved as well," the bigger man observed, fastidiously pulling apart the bagel and eating small pieces of it.

Enzo sighed, getting to his feet and crossing the kitchen to attend to the oven timer that shrilled on the counter. "Yes, and _bathed_ in addition," he sniped, putting on a too-large oven mitt and pulling a cast-iron pan from the rack. "This is clearly the most interesting thing we can talk about."

A key turned in the lock of the front door, and Gianpaolo got to his feet, straightening his jacket. He polished off the rest of the bagel and went to the kitchen door, clutching the can of sugar-free Red Bull and grabbing another bagel on his way out.

Mario had left almost forty-five minutes prior to retrieve his sister-in-law from the shelter downtown; he arrived with her now, and with Claudia.

"Mrs. Auditore," Gianpaolo said, reaching to shake her hand. "It's a pleasure. I'm Gianpaolo Romero. I've been sent here to help your family."

Maria nodded, giving him a slight smile. "It's a pity we couldn't meet at a less... unpleasant time," she said. "I've heard very good things about your uncle."

Two sets of footfalls came down the stairs, muffled thumps on the thick carpet, and Ezio looked around the corner. His golden eyes brightened at the sight of his mother and he went to her, embracing her.

"_Ezio_..." Maria frowned, clutching her son's shoulder. "Ezio, please."

Leonardo peeked around the corner and padded to the couch, where he sat heavily beside Malik, clutching a pillow. His hair was combed now, but the world-weariness had not left his face. His normally well-groomed goatee was scruffy and his clothes were wrinkled; he had made some attempt to tuck his shirt into his pants, but seemed to have forgotten halfway through.

Mario looked at the dining table and noted that the many seats around it were empty; he grabbed one of the chairs and pulled it closer to the sitting area, where he straddled the back of it and sat. "Shall we begin, then?"

Gianpaolo offered his arm to Maria and, with a slight chuckle, she passed him by and sat on the hearth. "Thank you anyway," she said, wrapping her jacket tighter around herself.

"I'm going to go upstairs," said Claudia, and with that started upstairs until Ezio caught her by the hood of her sweatshirt and pulled her along to sit beside their mother.

"Alright. Here's what I found out: this Uberto Alberti is hosting a banquet tomorrow night before he skips town to Napoli- never to be heard from again." Gianpaolo sipped from the blue and silver can, leaning against the banister at the base of the stairs. "I found out which caterer he's using... and if we're lucky," he said with a slight laugh, "they haven't changed their uniforms."

The door opened again and Mario looked over his shoulder to see Gilberto entering the house, dusty and crunching. His ponytail was messy, with several strands creeping free from the elastic band that held it back, and there was a visible rip in the thigh of his jeans. The skin beneath the denim bore a thin, red cut, but he seemed to pay it no mind; indeed, his attention was focused mostly on the remainder of a snickerdoodle cookie that he held in a pavement-scraped hand.

"Volpe, what happened?" asked Mario, getting awkwardly to his feet and kicking the chair into the glass table, which lurched awkwardly on a teetering leg.

Gilberto shrugged, holding up an impatient finger and swallowing a bite of cookie. "Not terribly much," he said finally. "I couldn't sleep... so I went for a walk last night." He ducked into the kitchen and retrieved a plate. "I heard you, by the way, Mister Romero," he added as he piled food upon the plate with surprising speed. "You may continue."

Enzo brushed past him nervously, hurrying into the living area to perch on the arm of Desmond's chair, and Gianpaolo smiled slightly awkwardly at the newcomer, adjusting his tie. "Ah... you would be-?"

With a smirk, Gilberto pulled the elastic from his hair and tied it back neatly once again. "You may call me La Volpe... and you may, as I said, continue. There will be time for formal introductions later." He opened a drawer and pulled a fork from it, picking up his plate once again and attacking the polenta.

"Alright." Gianpaolo scratched his nose, seating himself on the third stair. "He's the informant... I'm sorry to say this, but we've got to treat him as such," he said, "and I think it's best if we strike him first- and _hard_."

"Don't apologize," said Maria suddenly, seemingly to the floor. Her tone was harsh and cold.

Ezio frowned deeply, looking from his mother to Gianpaolo and back again. "Mom? What's-"

"Ezio," Maria said, "he already gave himself away. It would be foolish of us to let him leave." She looked older, more severe, with her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looked up at her son, resting her elbows on her knees. "Uberto must be held accountable for what he's done."


	114. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXIV

It was a new, dark room in which Giovanni found himself now- windowless and small, with a single splintering wooden chair and covered walls that muffled his voice.

Sounds seemed to enter and not to exit; indeed, he could hear through the door the voices of his captors, and he thought that he might have heard his eldest son growling stilted oaths, stifled perhaps by the gloved palm of one of their captors, punctuating the monotonous grumble of the city below.

He was several stories above ground; his legs ached still. They had forced him up several dark flights of stairs, the path illuminated only by the occasional low-watt light bulb swinging pendulously overhead. They had left Federico behind in the car, soon to follow, cursing and bound, tripping up the cold concrete and growling into the spittle-soaked gag. Petruccio was nowhere to be detected, held somewhere else, alone.

It was something akin to nightmares he'd had for years upon years of work for the Medici. Next would come the rats, snuffling and nudging against his feet, scraping and scratching the cold concrete floor with translucent claws.

The rats did not come, though there was a sharp bang on the door, followed by a shout from outside. "You still awake in there?"

Giovanni bit back the scathing note in his voice as best he could, closing his eyes in an effort to calm himself. "Why the hell am I being detained?" he called after a moment.

The footsteps receded and Giovanni slumped lower into the chair, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth.

He thought dully that it was perhaps too cold for rats; in any case, he remembered, it was worse than his nightmares. In the dreams that had plagued him in years past he had never imagined the horror of knowing that somewhere else, beyond his control, his children were in danger.

At least in his nightmares he had been alone, the single variable in a solveable equation. At least in his nightmares there had generally been a gun or a knife, some hidden weapon that might carry him through, taped beneath a chair or hidden in a crack in the wall. At least in his nightmares there was no chance of harm coming to his children for a false step on his part.

At least, he reflected with a bitter grimace, he had known he would wake from his nightmares.

He wondered idly, grimly, what could have befallen Lorenzo to keep him from answering his cell phone and his e-mail. He recalled the e-mail he'd written for Gilberto and wondered what he'd done with it. Had he sent it? It would hardly have been safe or sane to do so, but he was exhausted and his thoughts and memories were jumbled.

His shoulders ached, his muscles hard and tight with the effort of keeping his head up. He had been kept up through the night, moved multiple times and jarred awake every five or ten or fifteen minutes by echoing rapping on the door outside each room.

The door opened after a few moments more and as Giovanni rose to meet it, something skittered into the room, splitting in three parts on the floor with a high-pitched clatter. The door slammed shut shortly thereafter, and the deadbolt turned with a _clunk!_ as Giovanni approached the pieces of plastic and aluminum.

He felt his heart thump harder in terror and confusion as he saw the object. Lying on the ground was a metallic cylinder with a printed adhesive prescription label; nearby lay the bent plastic exterior and broken cap of Petruccio's inhaler.

He curled a hand around the aluminum tube and felt a dull burn settle into his sinuses as he dragged his aching body to the door and banged on it with all his might. "_What does this mean_?" he cried, and a thin wooden slat slid back with a _snap!_ in the door at eye level.

A smirking face veiled in a black acrylic balaclava appeared in the small window in the door; light bled in around the cheekbones and temples. Only his eyes and mouth were uncovered. "How's it going in there, pal?"

"Please," Giovanni began, curling his fingers in the narrow frame in the middle of the door, squinting against the bright light outside. He held up the cylinder. "Please, where is my son? He-"

"_Dad_? _Dad, where are you_?"

Petruccio's voice was crackling, broken, coming from the other man's pocket. Giovanni was certain for a moment that his heart had stopped. He held the window open, shaking. "Petruccio!"

The reception was bad in the metal and concrete building; Petruccio was clearly some distance away, perhaps a few rooms down the hall or perhaps more. "_I don't know where I am, it's dark. Dad, I_-"

"Poor, sweet thing," said the man, sneering through the small window, speaking over the young boy's voice as it rattled through the speaker. He pulled the walkie-talkie phone from his pocket and leaned into it to speak. "Shut the kid up, Shark. He'll bother the neighbors."

He pocketed the phone, which was now quiet, and grinned at Giovanni. "How's the room for you, by the way?" he asked casually. "Sorry we can't get to you for a while."

"Why am I being detained?" Giovanni asked again.

"Not my department, pal. I hope you won't mind waiting to speak to someone who can answer your questions... boss doesn't work on weekends." The man outside the window was examining his fingernails.

Giovanni's face fell. He had almost forgotten it was the weekend. Tomorrow, then, would be Monday. He wondered grimly what would happen to the bank. "Well, I... may I ask, then, who your boss is?" he asked after a pause. "And if you're to be detaining me, perhaps who _you_ are?"

The masked man considered the banker for a moment. He was scruffy, a full day's stubble grey-brown and glittering on his jaw in the low light; he looked worn-down and weakened, as though the fight had been forcibly taken out of him and deposited elsewhere, just out of his reach. If he hadn't been told of Giovanni's prowess with weapons of literally all kinds, he would have felt bad for the guy.

"It seems only proper, after all," Giovanni added weakly.

Furrowing his brow, the masked man cast a glance over his shoulder. "Craig," he said. "I'm Craig. And not even _I_ know who the boss is."


	115. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXV

The blue film curtain drawn around the bed filtered the light from the busy hospital ward, dimming the room around Lorenzo's narrow bed.

Angelo had slept slumped in the armchair in the corner of the room, resting his head on a spare pillow retrieved by a grudgingly helpful nurse in the middle of the night, and he had woken to the jumbled wailing synthesizer of his cell phone alarm and hurriedly shut it off so as not to wake the sleeping CEO.

It had taken him a moment to place himself, to realize why exactly he'd ended up here, but his senses had returned with a start as he realized that the steady beeping was that of the monitor that was hooked up to his employer and closest friend. All things considered, he had decided it was quite an amicable sound.

A couple of hours later, he had purchased a newspaper and a surprisingly large coffee and danish to match from the cafeteria. He took the elevator to the second floor, leaning resignedly against the handrail and sipping from the plastic and Styrofoam cup, clutching the pastry in a trembling hand.

It had been difficult to put together the pieces of the situation in which he'd found himself. For a moment he had almost forgotten that Giuliano was dead, but with startling clarity the image sprang to view of the young man's bloody body on the ground outside the funeral chapel.

The headlines on the papers read _Two Dead, One Wounded In Old Town Stabbing_. The picture on the front page- in the Sunday paper's full color- showed the intersection as it stood, cordoned off with police tape. Care had been taken to avoid the printing of the bloody sidewalk in the paper; the chapel sat alone in the frame, serene and self-contained behind the black and yellow plastic bands. Angelo shivered. The scene was fresh enough in his mind; it was bad enough to reflect but the eerie sterile image emblazoned on front page was too much. He let his eyes drift to the text that trickled down the side of the page.

_CEO of Medici Bank, Lorenzo Medici is in stable condition at Poudre Valley Hospital after attack at intersection of Olive and Mason Saturday night; brother Giuliano Medici and Francesco Nori, general manager of local branch, dead._

Angelo closed his stinging eyes. He had failed to remove his contact lenses overnight and now his eyes watered and ached. As the elevator reached its destination and announced its arrival with a _ding!_, he exited through the opening doors.

His phone vibrated in his pocket as he made his way down the hall, and he frowned and awkwardly fumbled it free. A text message had come in from a number he didn't recognize.

"How's Lorenzo this morning?"

"Asleep still, I think," he replied, thumbing the tiny keypad on the bottom third of the Blackberry. "Who's asking?"

He pocketed the phone once again and slid open the glass door to Lorenzo's room, pushing back the blue curtain.

Lorenzo's bed was in the upright position. The CEO's fingers were curled around the beige plastic guardrail; the veins on the back of his hand were spidery and blue, tapped and tethered by the spindly IV needles hooked up to a hanging bag of liquid. He turned his head toward his assistant and smiled slightly. "Angelo... you're here," he said placidly.

Angelo frowned and slid the door closed behind him. "Yeah," he said, setting down his danish and coffee on the small table in the corner of the room and throwing the newspaper down in the chair. "I've, ah... I've been here all night." His phone buzzed again, but he ignored it to go to the bedside. "You look pretty good," he added, pushing a limp strand of dark hair away from Lorenzo's face.

"You don't look too great, though," Lorenzo observed, lifting his uninhibited hand and stroking Angelo's cheek with his fingertips. He paused, tilting his head. "Are you alright, Angelo?"

The door opened once again and a nurse entered the room, carrying a small cardboard box. "How are you doing, mister Medici?" he asked quietly.

Angelo folded his arms over his chest, flushing in embarrassment, and went to the window, standing on his tiptoes to peer past the curtain. Below the window, in the street, a few stray cars rolled past.

Lorenzo watched Angelo with interest, and then returned his attention to the nurse. "Bit hazy," he replied after a moment's thought. "Could do with a glass of wine."

The nurse frowned, chewing his lower lip. "I, er... I have Giuliano Medici's personal effects," he said gently, placing the box on the bedside table.

Angelo looked over his shoulder at Lorenzo, biting down on his lower lip.

"We'll give them to him when we see him," said Lorenzo casually, pressing the button on the side of the bed, lowering the upper half of it. He paused, settling back into the pillow. "How is he doing?"

Angelo's face fell as he looked from Lorenzo to the small box on the table, then to the nurse. "_Lauro_... I told you last night," he said softly. "What is this?" He indicated the drip bag hanging suspended from a chrome rack at the head of Lorenzo's bed.

"Morphine," said the nurse. "It's on his chart-"

Lorenzo shook his head. "I don't _want_ to be on morphine," he protested. "It makes me sick, I throw up."

The nurse's eyebrows twitched upward and he took Lorenzo's chart off of the hanger at the foot of the bed. "I can talk to your doctor," he said. "I'll be right back."

With that, he left, and Angelo crossed the room, watching Lorenzo's eyes as he fingered the orange hazmat bag in the bottom of the box. "I... I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Lauro, but... Giuliano's dead."

Lorenzo jerked upward, pulling the tape that held the IV drip to his arm and grabbing at it feebly with the other hand. "What? Dead?"

"And Francesco Nori as well," Angelo said with a bitter frown. "Giovanni's son got to you in time, but he couldn't save Giuliano." He shifted the contents of the bag around. Giuliano's wallet slid wetly along the inside of the bag. It was still damp with his blood. "He was DOA."

There was a silence as Lorenzo stared at his assistant, baffled and bewildered; a few moments passed and finally, panicked, Lorenzo grabbed onto Angelo's arm. "What about Giovanni? Where's Giovanni, is he alright?"

Angelo closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know," he said, setting down the box. He took Lorenzo's hand in both of his own. "No one knows."


	116. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXVI

It was quiet in the sitting room of _Casa Auditore_.

Leonardo had fallen asleep with his head on the arm of the couch, exhausted and bedraggled, Gianpaolo had left on business, and Desmond napped in an oversized armchair. Maria and Claudia had departed for Mario's ranch north of town. A few spare sounds came from the kitchen, wherein Enzo was putting away the remnants of the breakfast Leonardo had prepared.

It was much less quiet in the small backyard, past curtains and sliding glass doors.

"_No_, god damn it! Get under me! If you try to come in over my arm I'll get you in the ribs. Then you're _really_ fucked." Altaïr shoved Ezio backward, shaking out his legs.

Ezio slumped his shoulders, combing a hand through his dark, shaggy hair. The elastic with which he had tied it back was long since lost. "Why can't we just _shoot him_?"

Altaïr gritted his teeth, casting a glance toward the patio. "Mal-"

"Because you cannot call attention to yourself," Malik supplied, raising dark eyes from the newspaper in his lap. He spoke more to Altaïr than to Ezio.

"And hand-to-hand combat isn't _calling attention_?" Ezio grumbled, tossing his hair from his eyes.

Mario scooted his glass along the tabletop. "I know from experience that you don't even know _how_ to shoot. Let's _go_, boy."

Ezio grimaced. "I don't want to hit _him_," he said with a weak gesture in Altaïr's direction.

Altaïr frowned, picking up a towel to wipe the mud splatters from his scarred, bare chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mario got to it first.

"Would you rather hit me_, nipote_?" he asked, putting on a show of stretching his massive arms and gathering his thick legs beneath him to stand.

"_No_, I wouldn't!" Ezio said, scowling at his uncle.

Mario shrugged. "Suit yourself, but do something. It's getting boring."

Altaïr tossed the towel down onto the concrete patio. "It's okay. You probably won't _actually_ hit me... just try." He grinned, crooking his index finger and taking a step back, tilting his head.

With a frustrated grunt, Ezio threw himself at the older man, but found himself quickly thrown down and sat upon; Altaïr's rough hands gripped his shoulders and his thighs held his ribs. Ezio curled his hands into tight fists atop Altaïr's knees, letting his head rest on the wet grass. "_Thank you_. This is great. I wasn't aware we were doing _jiu-jitsu_ with him."

Altaïr lifted dark eyebrows and tweaked Ezio's nose. "I saw the guy's picture. He's big. You don't want him on top of you like this." He shifted off of the younger man's torso and got to his feet. "The point being, don't just _lunge_. Get your damn weight under you before you strike."

"I just..." Ezio sighed, brushing a stray leaf from his hair. He looked a bit like an awful caveman, tangled and unshaven, wearing a too-small T-shirt from his older brother's dresser, as he took the hand offered him by Altaïr and pulled himself up.

"We don't have a lot of time, Ezio," said a smooth voice from the rooftop.

Ezio looked up and frowned at Gilberto, who sat cross-legged amongst the shingles, staring down at him. "I thought you _left_, Volpe," he said.

Gilberto scowled at the young man on the ground. "Yes- but then I came back. It matters little, but remember, Ezio: this won't just be a fistfight. Knocking him out won't suffice." He put a hand in the pocket of his pullover and drew out a long knife, sheathed in black nylon. "Thus, I brought you a gift."

"_Ooh_." Altaïr's ears seemed to perk up and he held a hand up toward the man on the roof. "May I?" He took the knife that Gilberto held out and examined it, pulling it from its scabbard and holding it by its enameled wood grip; he turned it in his hand appraisingly, feeling the weight of the blade. "This is a _nice_ knife, man. Where'd you get it?"

"A private collection. It's older than you are, certainly. Therefore, Ezio," Gilberto said pointedly, "be _careful_ with it, and for god's sake don't put too many prints on it. We'll wipe it after you're done, but exercise a _bit_ of caution. And return it to me when you've finished."

The glass door slid open and Gilberto's eyes flickered as he looked through the gutter.

"_Okay_," said Enzo as he brought out a number of plates. "This is what I could not fit in the refrigerator."

Gilberto slid off of the roof and landed on the grass as the harried-looking bartender set the plates down on the glass patio table. "I'll have some-"

"_Oh_! Don't _do_ that!" Enzo admonished.

He smelled like some strange blend of flowers and chemicals. It was strong and unsettling, different from his normal scent. Gilberto's nose twitched involuntarily and he rubbed at it with his wrist. "Apologies," he said. "What are you wearing?"

Enzo looked down at his denim jacket and back up at the taller man, frowning. "_Clothes_?" He brushed a sweet-smelling curl back from his forehead. "I didn't know I would be inspected by the _fashion police_."

Gilberto opened his mouth to reply, but he shook it off and picked up a plate of food. "Never mind," he said finally.

"Okay, then." Enzo scratched the back of his neck. "If anyone should need me, I, ah... I am going to go make sure my housemates have not burned down the inside of my house. The outside seems fine." He slid the patio door shut and crossed the back yard, casting a momentary glance over his shoulder at Gilberto, flushing as he walked into the fence that separated his yard from the yard of _Casa Auditore_.

"I didn't know he lived so nearby," Mario said with a frown.

Gilberto nodded, stabbing a slice of tomato with a fork. "He didn't _drive_ here," he said.

"Ezio, can you _do_ this thing?" Altaïr asked, sheathing the knife.

Mario looked up at the mechanic from his seat at the table. "Of _course_ he can."

Ezio brushed his hair from his eyes. "I'll do it," he said, frowning in Mario's direction. "I... I'm _nervous_, but I'll do it."

Altaïr pressed the knife into Ezio's hand. "Alright, don't chicken out. Remember, I'm going in with you, but I'm just your backup."


	117. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXVII

"It's a shame to see you leaving, Uberto."

Ezio felt the weight of the knife strapped to his stomach, underneath his borrowed cotton caterer's uniform. He watched from behind the truck as Alberti shook hands with the mayor, a diminutive man with a flat nose and a broad smile. It wouldn't be long. Soon he would have to get his wits about him and use the blade.

There were a handful of people waiting to speak to Alberti before the conclusion of the festivities- including a number of the Pazzi and of the Salviati. He bowed his head as he shuffled past the group, carrying a decimated tray of pasta alfredo.

"It's really too bad Giovanni Auditore couldn't make it," said someone.

Ezio almost threw a glance over his shoulder to look at the speaker, but grit his teeth and sighed out a rough breath. He heard a brief burst of quiet laughter.

It would be easier now, at least. _Much_ easier.

Alberti's party had been well-attended, and though Ezio had recognized many of the faces he'd seen, thankfully none of them had recognized him.

He handed off the tray to the supervisor in the truck, avoiding eye contact and quickly shuffling off so as not to raise suspicions. Altaïr was across the garden in an identical uniform, and when Ezio concentrated he glowed bright blue against the misty blue-grey garden, among a disproportionate number of red silhouettes.

The mechanic approached him, carrying a tray stacked with glasses. He looked convincingly like a caterer, though he carried the tray on his right hand as he hadn't the fingers required for the task on the left. A towel was draped over his left forearm.

"You ready, tiger?" he asked as he crossed Ezio's path.

Ezio clenched his jaw, grabbing the handles of another mostly-empty tray. "They're talking about my dad," he growled.

"Oh, _dude_." Altaïr passed him and gently brushed his lower back with his hand as he went by. "You can do it," he whispered.

Taking a deep breath, Ezio nodded to himself and picked up the tray to take it to the truck.

"Ready to disappear?" asked a voice in the headphone that hung around his neck.

Ezio handed the tray off and slipped past the truck into the bushes along the paving-stone walkway. He could see the garden through the thick brambly branches of the red-violet hedge.

Altaïr peered out from the other side of the bush. He withdrew his cell phone from his pocket, and with a glance over his shoulder, nodded to Ezio. "All clear," he said into the phone. "We're ready for you."

A second catering truck pulled up alongside the hedge, the one in which they'd arrived, with a copy of the company's logo emblazoned freshly on the white-painted windows.

The doors swung open and Altaïr clambered into the back, then held out a hand to help Ezio up.

Malik stood just inside the doors, clad entirely in black, waiting for them. He flashed a momentary smile at Altaïr as he handed him a jacket, which the mechanic put on. "Shut the door." Ezio and Altaïr each grabbed a handle and pulled shut the doors, and Malik pulled a revolver from the pocket of his jacket and shoved it into Altaïr's hands. "Take this. I have mine as well."

Altaïr looked into Malik's eyes in the dark of the unlit van and smiled, briefly, before the vehicle started to move and he was knocked against the door.

He almost laughed, but as the van rolled away and turned, he had to hold onto a railing to stabilize himself. Without another word he tucked the pistol into his pocket.

After only a few moments, the van stopped to wait for the real caterers to leave, and the passenger door opened; the dome light momentarily illuminated nervous faces as a man neither Ezio nor Altaïr knew got out of the car.

Gianpaolo glanced over his shoulder from the driver's seat and smiled grimly. "Alright back there?" He paused. "Ezio, you ready for this?"

Ezio nodded, fingering the handle of his knife through his shirt. "More than ready," he said.

His voice seemed to have taken on a harshness that Altaïr didn't recognize in the intervening moments. He was angry and even though fear was visible upon looking into his golden eyes, it hardly registered through the tension of readiness in his shoulders.

It seemed to take forever for the preparations to be made, for the props to be placed, the scene to be set. Eventually the man returned to the van and gave them the go-ahead, and they started to move once again, finally parking in front of Alberti's house.

"We'll meet you around back. Remember: it's _crucial_ you get him into the back yard," Gianpaolo implored, turning slightly in his seat to make eye contact.

Ezio nodded. "I'll get him there," he said. "I'm ready to do this."

Malik opened the back door for them and Altaïr followed Ezio out. The pistol Malik had given him was heavy in the pocket of his jacket. He was about to close the door when Malik stopped it in its path and quirked a dark eyebrow.

"You cannot _possibly_ think I will allow you to go without me," he said with a sardonic smile.

Altaïr winced at the sudden twinge of nerves that threatened to knot his stomach. "Mal, I-"

"I will stay out of trouble, Altaïr, but I will be keeping an eye on you." Malik followed them out and shut the corrugated metal door behind him.

Altaïr accompanied Ezio up the stairs to Alberti's door and Malik stood in the shadows of a great old evergreen tree, watching as they rang the bell. He pulled his dark knit cap down further onto his head.

Alberti opened the door. His jacket was unbuttoned, his tie haphazardly loosened. A crumpled T-shirt hung from his meaty hand, and his packed suitcases sat at the base of the stairs. "What is it?" he barked, and then his voice softened upon sight of the two young men in clean white uniforms, Altaïr's shirt covered by his black windbreaker. "Ah... I mean, can I help you with something?"

"We discovered on the way back that we missed packing up a tablecloth from your party, mister... Alberti." Altaïr shivered convincingly, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket and curling his fingers around the grip of the revolver, taking comfort in its body-warm weight. "We didn't want to break into your back yard to get it-"

"Of course not," said Alberti politely, dropping the wrinkled jersey-knit shirt onto his suitcases. "Let me, ah... let me take you to the back." He pulled his jacket closed around himself and stepped onto the porch. "My wife's asleep or I'd bring you through the house."

"Uberto?" asked a woman's voice from inside the house.

Alberti paled and shut the door. "_Right_... so, follow me, then," he said, brushing past them and leading the way down the steps.

Ezio shot a sidelong glance at Altaïr and followed Alberti as he walked around the tree and along the hedge to the fence. He knew he couldn't speak yet- Alberti hadn't recognized his face, but he couldn't take the chance of his voice being recognized.

"Ah, yes, that would be it, wouldn't it, boys?" asked Alberti, opening the wide garden gate to permit them entrance.

It was now or never. Ezio took a breath. "Uberto Alberti," he said, though his voice shook with nerves as he slid his hand under his cotton shirt. "You thought you'd gotten away with selling out my father." He pulled the knife from the sheath strapped to his stomach. His heart was pounding now and every muscle ached for action. The knife was heavy, but seemed to be little more than an extension of his arm.

Alberti pivoted and his eyebrows jerked upward. "Ezio-"

Ezio approached him as he spoke. "He trusted you and you _fucked him over_!"

He lunged- and in a split second the knife was in Alberti's chest. Another split second and it was out again.

Altaïr stood back, keeping watch around the corners of the hedge. Ezio was upon Alberti now, his white shirt spattered with bright red blood as he stabbed again and again, six or perhaps seven times; Altaïr shuddered. It was too much, too impulsive, but above all it was taking too long.

"Stop. Ezio, he's _dead_, or will be soon; we need to get out of here before someone comes."

Ezio looked up silently, his face freckled with smearing red. Alberti had fallen to the ground, bleeding.

Altaïr picked up the white tablecloth and waved it through the break in the hedge, and the van pulled up.

"It's done," he said to the man in the passenger's seat. Footfalls approached and Malik opened the back of the van wordlessly, climbing in; Altaïr took the knife from Ezio's bloody hand and wrapped it in the tablecloth. "Let's go."


	118. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXVIII

Once he was inside the catering truck, Ezio was on his knees, retching; someone found a black garbage bag to place under him and Altaïr crouched at his side, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Malik shut the doors and Gianpaolo and the passenger got out of the van, bringing with them a crate of supplies.

"What's going on?" Altaïr asked.

"There will be someone coming shortly to collect us," Malik said. "Gianpaolo and Vinnie will clean up the scene."

Altaïr wrapped his arm around Ezio, who now held himself up on the floor of the van with red hands; his shoulders shook as unbidden tears fell from his eyes. "You're okay, kid," the mechanic whispered.

Ezio knew that Alberti had been his father's friend. Now, as saltwater burned its way down his face, he realized the gravity of the man's actions. It had been furious, fumbling vengeance, at first- but now that it was done, now that Alberti was dead by his hand, he realized that it had been matter of honor, of integrity.

Malik sat on the floor at Altaïr's side. "If you will tie up that bag, they will take it with the body."

With a silent nod, Altaïr did as he was told while Ezio crawled to the side of the van, ashen and swallowing thickly and repeatedly, clutching his stomach. His body ached and the top of his uniform was soaked with his sweat and Alberti's blood.

"You did well, Ezio," Malik said. "I am aware that it hurts you, but you performed admirably."

Ezio nodded his acknowledgement and crossed his legs beneath himself, bracing his elbows on his knees and brushing stray hair from his face, each clumped strand painting a streak of red across his skin. He shook as he stared at the floor of the truck, mouthing his lower lip and nearly dripping sweat. "I _smell_," he said in a low growl.

"Yeah. Take a shower when you get home," Altaïr said, going to the front of the van to peer out the window. "The car's here," he said.

They got out of the van and Ezio glanced toward the garden. Gianpaolo and the other man, the one he hadn't recognized, were wrapping the body in a sheet; dark red was seeping into the fibers around Alberti's chest, and as they turned the body over, Ezio saw Alberti's face, pallid, grey in the low light, and he gasped in shock.

His heart seemed to shudder in his chest and he froze, staring at the open mouth, the broken form which looked so strange and unnatural to his eyes. "_My god_-"

"Hey. Ezio, let's go," Altaïr said, bodily turning him away from the scene and leading him to the mid-'80s Subaru GL that had pulled up beside the catering truck.

The ride to _Casa Auditore_ was mercifully short and quiet, the only sounds audible being the soft rumble of the engine and the low-volume yammering of some AM radio talk show host over the speakers. Ezio sat in the front seat beside a young man who had introduced himself as Gianpaolo's younger brother Marino, and Altaïr sat in the back beside Malik, silent and staring at the white bundle in his lap.

As for Malik, he leaned his head on the window, staring blankly into the dark of night, distractedly mouthing the very tip of his thumb.

When the car pulled up in the drive, Ezio got out without a word and hurried up the cobblestone walkway; he used the window ledge to get onto the roof and went to the window of his bedroom, into which he disappeared.

Altaïr frowned and watched Ezio slam shut the window as he thanked the driver and tucked the knife, still wrapped in the tablecloth, into his jacket. He closed the door and went around the back of the station wagon as it trundled off down the street.

Malik frowned sympathetically, taking Altaïr's hand in his own. "Perhaps a cigarette," he said quietly. "You look ill."

"No," Altaïr said, looking into Malik's eyes. "I don't... I don't want to. I mean... someone's going to need to talk to Leo. He'll be worried and I think-"

"Ezio will speak to him," Malik said. "Allow them the opportunity." He let go of Altaïr's hand and reached inside his jacket, pulling the package from it and dropping it unceremoniously onto the driveway, where it landed with a soft, muffled thump; with a brief glance upward into golden eyes, he stood on the balls of his feet and leaned up for a firm kiss.

Altaïr heard a stifled groan from his own lips, and he closed his eyes, curling a hand around the back of Malik's neck.

It seemed to have been forever since Malik had last kissed him in this way, when they were both sweaty and shaking, coming down from an adrenaline high. There was a measure of urgency to the way Malik's teeth slid along his lower lip and his fingers curled around the lapel of his jacket, pulling him ever closer; Altaïr shivered as he realized that the growl that resonated in his throat was not his.

The door opened and Altaïr flushed, pulling away from the kiss but holding onto Malik's shoulders; he looked to the door to see Desmond standing there in little more than a pair of pajama pants with a bewildered frown on his face.

"Are you two coming in? We're trying to set up sleeping arrangements." He scratched his bare shoulder, squinting at them from the doorway.

Altaïr frowned; his hand slid down Malik's shoulder to hold onto his elbow, and Malik pulled away from him, shaking his head. "We had planned to go home-"

"Mario's not letting us leave," Desmond called back. "Will you please come in?"

With a disparaging grunt, Malik picked up the knife from the driveway and shoved it into Altaïr's hands, then made his way up the walk.

The shower was already running when they entered the house, and when Altaïr made his way upstairs to tap on the bathroom door to assure himself that Ezio was alright, he was told quite sternly to go away.


	119. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXIX

The sound of fingers drumming on the door felt like a rusty railroad spike driven into Ezio's head. He turned up the hot water and growled "_go away_" to his tormentor.

His fingernails were once again ringed with blood; once he stepped into the spray, the water turned pink in thick streams from the hair that hung in his face.

He had thrown his clothes away, but he still smelled blood; he had brushed his teeth three times to rid his mouth of the taste of bile.

It hadn't been nearly as bad in the hospital, when the blood was from what seemed to him a more noble effort. Alberti had doubtless deserved what befell him, but now that Ezio had a moment in which he could dwell on the circumstances, now that the last of the adrenaline had left his system... it somehow felt like sinking to his level.

He sighed, picking up a nail brush from the rack hanging from the curtain rod, scrubbing under his nails and in the whorls of his fingerprints with the nylon fibers.

The smell of the citrus shampoo was sickly sweet, cloying; it turned his stomach as he rubbed it into his thick, long hair, and he tried not to gag. He had begun to wonder if anything would ever smell the same again; indeed, he wasn't sure if the acrid smell of blood that lingered with him to weigh on his conscience was real or imagined.

He jumped at the sound of the doorknob turning and scowled at the slight squeal of the hinges. "I'm showering," he said shortly.

"I know, Ezio." Leonardo's voice was soft and gentle, and despite himself Ezio found some comfort in his tone.

The door clicked shut and there was a moment of silence as Ezio rinsed the soap from his hair. Another moment passed and he began to wonder if Leonardo had left; the guilty knot that squirmed in his stomach somewhat surprised him. "What are you doing in here?" he asked nonchalantly, hoping for an answer.

Leonardo sighed softly, but did not reply. He undressed quickly and pulled back the shower curtain, then stepped into the tub, wrapping his arms around Ezio's firm, naked body and pulling him tight against his bare chest. "_Ezio_... are you alright?"

Ezio looked down at the strong arms holding his waist, clutching him like a child, and an ache welled in his chest; finally, he shook his head. "No," he said. "I... I _hurt_, Leo."

"I know," Leonardo said, pressing his lips against Ezio's shoulder. "I wanted to say that I am sorry for last night." His hands slid up Ezio's thickly-muscled sides, delicate fingers dipping into the shallow grooves of his ribcage.

"I'm sorry too," Ezio replied quietly.

He frowned as Leonardo's hands left his skin; after a moment, however, those strong fingers were on his aching shoulders, tenderly massaging them. "I assume that things went as planned," Leonardo said, pushing Ezio's thick, wet hair aside to rub the base of his neck.

Ezio groaned through gritted teeth. The pressure on tense, swollen knots of muscle was nearly enough to bring him to his knees. "You could say that," he said with a grimace, curling his fingers into tight fists and forcing himself to accept the pain.

Leonardo slid his hands down over Ezio's biceps and kissed the back of his neck. "I am glad to hear it, Ezio," he whispered. "I was worried for you."

As breath fell over his damp shoulder, warm and cool at once and raising goosebumps, Ezio was surprised and somewhat dismayed to find himself shivering despite the heat of the water spilling down his front, his body reacting against his wishes to the tender touch.

With a slight naughty smile, Leonardo slid his hands down his back and over the firm roundness of his ass, sighing appreciatively.

Ezio turned to him to speak, doubtless to say something stupid, but Leonardo's lips were on his own before he could get a word out. He gasped through his nose and took the artist's shoulders in his hands, tensing for a moment before relaxing and allowing Leonardo to kiss him.

Things had been uneasy between them for the entirety of the day- they had hardly exchanged a word, staying in separate rooms when possible- but now they were alone, the sounds of their breathing drowned by the running water. Leonardo shivered as Ezio pulled away to mouth the base of his neck, pulling him against his slick skin and into his arms, biting down and sucking on ivory flesh.

"Did you lock the door?" Ezio growled against Leonardo's neck.

Leonardo nodded, gasping pleasurably as Ezio's fingers grazed between his buttocks. "_Sì_... ah... _Ezio_." He chuckled, mouthing Ezio's earlobe and tangling his fingers in dark hair. "You are so _eager_."

Ezio grunted softly, tipping his head up to nudge Leonardo's nose with his own; he couldn't help smiling slightly at the scrape of the artist's goatee against his jaw. "It has been too long," he said, and Leonardo _laughed_, then became suddenly breathless as Ezio teased him with callused fingertips.

"Since- _ah_- the day before yesterday," he said, squirming in Ezio's arms.

Ezio chuckled. "Too long."

His fingers were demanding, wet and achingly dry at once, not slick enough from the running water. Leonardo whined softly, pawing at Ezio's hair, simultaneously desirous and fearful of the hard length rising against his own.

It was not often that they did this, and though his legs were weak and his head swimming with lust, he couldn't bear the thought of the pain that would surely follow if he was not properly prepared for what would doubtless be rough treatment. "_No_," he said softly, nudging Ezio's hand away. "We can do this later, Ezio."

Ezio's eyebrows twitched upward, his lips bowing in a crestfallen frown. "I'm sorry-"

"You need not apologize," Leonardo said with a gentle smile, kneeling at Ezio's feet.

Ezio was _gloriously_ hard, standing outside the spray of the shower; delicate beads of water collected on the pink-red skin of his shaft, glittering in the light that filtered through the gauzy shower curtain.

Leonardo wrapped a hand around him and pressed his lips to the flushed tip; his breath quickened at the taste of the sea on his tongue as he moved closer, enveloping Ezio's cock in the heat of his mouth, and every rough gasp and ragged groan from Ezio's lips went straight to his groin until he was aching.

"L-_Leonardo_..." Ezio tangled the fingers of his left hand in the artist's blond hair, pulling at the shower head, and Leonardo looked up at him with blue eyes narrowed in pleasure, sliding his hands to the small of his back to pull him nearer until the tip of his nose was buried in damp curls, his fingertips digging into the thick muscles of Ezio's waist.

The steaming water was pouring over him now, rippling over his back and wetting his hair, spare droplets collecting on the dark fringe of his eyelashes. He could scarcely breathe but the taste of Ezio, the musky smell of him, enticed him to continue; it was not until Ezio's hands grasped his arms and pulled him to his feet that he opened his eyes.

A smile flickered in Ezio's eyes as he leaned in to kiss Leonardo roughly, taking him in a strong hand and stroking him, _maddeningly _gentle as he slid his thumb over the leaking head, his teeth clicking against Leonardo's and his own cock pressing against the artist's hip, still wet from Leonardo's mouth and cooling in the ambient air, a subtle burning pain that was far from unpleasant.

Leonardo groaned as the rough hand pumped him, his knees once again weakening as he grabbed at the younger man's dark hair with his right hand, his left firmly palming Ezio's cock and jerking; he was rapidly losing his composure, thrusting into Ezio's hand and whimpering through his nose.

It was Ezio who lost it first, overwhelmed, tossing his head back and biting down on a shattered cry, striking the back of his head on the tile wall and tightening his fist slightly in pain, and Leonardo followed quickly, spilling over Ezio's hand and thigh, burying his face in the base of his lover's neck and heaving with harsh panting. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.

Ezio wrapped his arms around Leonardo, crushing him against his body and resting his temple against wet blond hair. His chest ached with emotion as water poured down his side, rinsing away the salty, sticky fluid from his skin; the water heater was emptying and the water cooling rapidly, sending shocks through his muscles.

Leonardo pulled away to turn the water off, and Ezio wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. "Thank you," he said finally as Leonardo pulled back the shower curtain and stepped out of the tub.

"_Hm_?" Leonardo opened the small closet and pulled a plush ivory towel from it, holding it out for Ezio. "Oh... honey. There is no need to thank me."

Ezio swallowed, nodding silently and stepping out of the shower, wrapping himself in the thick towel, and followed him out of the bathroom and into his old bedroom.

Leonardo shut and locked the door behind them, holding a towel around his waist and clutching his clothes to his chest. "No one will bother us until morning," he said, with more than a hint of irritation in his voice. It occurred to Ezio that if anyone should dare to disturb them, they would likely meet a side of the genial artist with which few were familiar.

"I'm sure you're right," Ezio agreed, going to the dresser in the corner. It was filled with his old clothes, items from high school which hardly fit anymore, but he was able to dig up a few things for the pair of them.

They settled into bed together, and though Ezio had intended for much more to occur, weariness quickly weighed on his eyelids, rendering them too heavy to hold up; Leonardo watched as he succumbed to sleep, somewhat amused and vaguely relieved.

He could but hope that Ezio would not be changed by what he had to do. It hardly seemed fair. Ezio had never been completely innocent, though on occasion he edged into childlike sweetness and simplicity.

He could but hope that he would not lose to darkness the young man he had, at some point, grown to love.


	120. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXX

It was a midwinter afternoon when Leonardo first saw the rougher side of Ezio, and when he began to realize that he was not nearly as innocent as he had previously thought.

The door of Leonardo's apartment opened with a gentle metal-on-metal shuddering sound, and subsequently closed; footfalls followed, and Leonardo spoke without looking up from his homework.

"Hi, honey... how was work?"

Ezio did not reply; instead he went to the kitchen and started the ice dispenser, which clunked and rattled for a few moments until it stopped.

Leonardo frowned, looking into the kitchen in bewilderment. "Honey?"

"_Ungh_." Ezio returned from the kitchen, holding a Ziploc bag full of ice to his jaw, and sank into an immense squashy chair. A bruise was blossoming near the corner of his mouth, converging with the healed pink scar over his lips, and his right nostril was ringed with dried blood; a crackling, caked trickle of red-brown traversed the distance between his nose and upper lip.

"You look _terrible_!" Leonardo said, putting down his notebook and going to Ezio's side. He pulled his hand from his jaw to look at the purple bruise forming there and frowned deeply. "What happened to you?"

Ezio grimaced, freeing his wrist from Leonardo's grasp and returning the ice to his face. "Fight," he said in a grunt. "That _dick_ Vieri de' Pazzi was trying to put his slimy hands on Cristina."

Leonardo frowned, looking wounded for a moment. Ezio and Cristina had dated prior to the beginning of their relationship and he wondered, on occasion, if Ezio regretted their parting. "I- I was not aware that you are still-"

A bitter, angry scowl flitted over Ezio's face and he stood. "If you object to me being friends with Cristina..."

"_Ezio_!" Leonardo looked up at the younger man with blue eyes narrowed. "It is not that. I... I did not know you were jealous of-"

"Oh _man_, Leo. That's _not_ what I mean at all."

The slight lift of Ezio's eyebrows told Leonardo everything he needed to know. He pulled a face. "_Dio mio_. I am sorry, Ezio... is she alright?"

Ezio sighed, slumping into the chair again. "I got to him before he could do anything, but... it was a close call. You should see _Vieri_, though," he said with more than a hint of pride.

Leonardo frowned slightly and went to the kitchen, from which he retrieved a handful of wet paper towels. "_Ezio_," he said softly, sitting on the arm of the chair and tenderly wiping at the blood on Ezio's upper lip. "You are so very brave. I am not sure I could do something like that."

"It's just kind of... I don't know. Something took over." Ezio put the ice pack down in his lap and took Leonardo's hand to squeeze it it lovingly. "Anyway, you do all _kinds_ of crazy shit. I can't even be in the room when you have your dissection diagrams up."

With a nod, Leonardo turned Ezio's hand over. His knuckles were scuffed and bruising like his jaw, and his palm was marked with deep furrows, impressions of his fingernails. "I think that you did a good thing, Ezio."

He kissed Ezio's fingertips, looking into his eyes, and then frowned at the bruise on his jaw. "I would not want you to go to _work_ like this," he added quietly, more to himself than to Ezio.

Ezio once again reapplied the ice pack to his jaw. "Well... I can't really think of an alternative. I mean... what's done is done-"

"_Toh_, no, Ezio, do not worry. I think that we can hide the bruising on your face." Leonardo fussed at Ezio's messy ponytail, pulling the elastic from it and combing his fingers through dark curtains of hair.

"With..." Ezio paused and frowned. "With _makeup_?"

Leonardo frowned. "Well... if you _wish_ to think of it that way. Ezio, your _father_, what will your father think if you go to work like this?"

"I..." Ezio sighed. "_Fine_."


	121. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXXI

In the dark of the night, well past moonset, the window of Giovanni and Maria's bedroom creaked open and Gilberto slid silently into the room, cursing as his shin bumped the edge of the bed.

He took the backpack off of his shoulders and opened the door of Giovanni's closet, then crouched inside it amongst the jackets and slacks, trying hard to ignore the maddening smell of the banker on every single item, laundered or not, as he opened a secret compartment in the wall and returned the knife to it, now wiped clean, sheathed, and sharpened.

It was a favorite of his, a gift he'd given Giovanni almost thirty years prior for his birthday that had been met with demands of _who did you take this off of_ and _how did you afford this_. Once that had passed, Giovanni had spent the rest of the night admiring the thing.

He'd never been prouder of a gift he'd given. It was a beautiful knife, and the original leather sheath had had Giovanni's name carved into it.

It wasn't until almost a year later that he explained exactly how he'd afforded it: a new job, working under cover of darkness as a hired hand, stealing information off of various underworld scum- and when he explained, it had taken little time for Giovanni and Maria to become involved as well.

Gilberto shut the door of the compartment and pocketed the key, leaning back against the wall of the closet and hugging his knees to his chest. He could hear everything of note within the walls of the house: Mario was on the phone with someone downstairs, likely Maria; Altaïr and Malik were having a quiet conversation that he tried not to overhear; Desmond was snoring, which was not entirely notable.

He closed his eyes, shuffling his feet along the carpet and clutching his backpack to his side. He could smell the cookies that he'd brought from his apartment, and though his stomach growled its displeasure at him, he couldn't face the thought of eating. It was a strange feeling that he hoped would pass quickly.

Mario's conversation ended and footsteps came up the stairs. As if instinctively, and without knowing why, Gilberto tucked himself tighter into the corner of the tiny, dark room, making himself as inobtrusive as possible.

The door of the bedroom squealed open and Mario's heavy footfalls entered the room. "Gilberto, you in here?"

Gilberto sighed, pulling his backpack into his lap. "Yes," he said quietly.

"Good. Didn't want someone to have broken in." Mario crossed the room and shut and locked the window, then turned toward the open cubicle. "Are you in the _closet_?" he asked incredulously, crouching and peering into the darkness. Violet eyes brightened at the back of the cramped cupboard and Mario laughed, almost nervously. "Alright, I'll bite: what are you doing in there?"

"I had to put Giovanni's knife away," Gilberto replied, curling his toes inside his boots. He looked at Mario from his almost unfair vantage point and sighed sadly. Mario's face was flushed and his mouth drooped in a heavy frown. "Is there any news?"

Mario shook his head. "I have an APB out," he said, getting to his knees and crawling into the closet beside his friend. He pushed a few garments aside to make room for his broad shoulders and sat cross-legged on the floor. "I'm waiting to hear from my contacts in Cheyenne and Denver."

"Antonio and Teodora, then?" Gilberto unzipped his backpack and pulled out a Ziploc bag; he opened it and handed Mario a cookie.

With a nod, Mario took the proffered baked good. "Did you bake these yourself?" he asked.

Gilberto shrugged, taking out a cookie for himself. "Yes. Well, I put them in the oven. They're Pillsbury."

"Excellent." Mario ran a finger along the edge of the cookie. "I, uh... they're looking for them. Antonio's got his best men on it. Well... he's got Rosa on it."

"She is like _two_ men. Drunk men."

"He's got Ugo as well," Mario noted, placing the cookie on his knee and folding his arms over his chest. After a silent moment, Gilberto began crunching, and Mario chuckled tensely. "I also called in a couple of favors. We're keeping this out of the papers as much as possible. Don't need to run into any trouble there."

Gilberto nodded, having started on another cookie.

Mario sighed, letting his shoulders slump. "Do you think, realistically-"

He was cut off by an indignant grunt. "Don't," Gilberto said. "Yes, we'll get him back. There's no use spending too much time worrying."

"That's not what I was going to ask," Mario said, scowling at Gilberto in the darkness. "Do you think we're putting all our eggs in one basket, in terms of Ezio?"

Gilberto frowned. "Are you asking if I think he can kill?"

"I'm asking if you think he _will_ kill," Mario said, fidgeting with the cookie balanced on his knee.

"He _has_ killed, Mario." Gilberto put the Ziploc back in his backpack and unzipped his sweatshirt to take it off. "Eat your cookie."


	122. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXXII

"You shouldn't go to Denver. I don't want you to."

Angelo looked up from folding his blanket and frowned at Lorenzo, who sat up in the hospital bed. "I'm not _going_ to Denver, not right now. I'm going to my apartment. I need a shower like I need _air_."

Lorenzo nodded, taking his glasses off and setting them down on the bedside tray beside the novel he'd been reading. He was pale and tired, but in relatively high spirits for his condition. "Good... there are plenty of people who can take care of things there. I want you here with me."

"Understood. I'll be back soon, alright?" Angelo set the blanket down in the chair. "I'm going to try and get in touch with the Auditore family and see if there's anything we can do for them, or if they have any leads. The police are looking for Francesco de' Pazzi but haven't found him yet, and Bernardo Baroncelli has completely disappeared off the radar."

With a sigh, Lorenzo settled back in the bed, which was inclined at a 45-degree angle. He slid his hand over the heavily-bandaged wound on his chest. "They don't matter right now, but don't discourage the police from chasing their tails on this one." He paused, unlacing the neck of his hospital gown and looking the bandages over passively. "_Please_ tell me they're keeping the kidnapping out of the papers."

Angelo nodded, rubbing the back of his aching neck. "We're clear on that front, so far. Anyway, do you want anything while I'm out?"

"Clarice's coming with the children this afternoon," Lorenzo said, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. "I wish they'd let me get up. I'm _fine_, you know."

Rolling his eyes, Angelo crossed the room. "Yes, I know. Just ride it out." He smiled gently, curling his fingers around the handle of the sliding glass door. "It's safer this way. You're lucky they let you go off the morphine."

Lorenzo narrowed his dark eyes shrewdly. "I was _vomiting_, it wasn't as if I had much of a choice. I _told_ them I would vomit if they gave me morphine but they didn't listen."

"I know. I'm sorry." Angelo pulled open the door, casting a glance over his shoulder. "I'll see you soon, Lauro."

"Angelo, hang on: I want you to take my credit card." Lorenzo looked around helplessly for his wallet. "If you're going to be running errands, I wouldn't want you to be doing it on your own dime." He smiled slightly, countering Angelo's frown.

"Are you sure?" Angelo asked with a skeptical lift of an eyebrow. "I don't want to put you out; you're going to have enough bills to pay. I can take care of things."

Lorenzo shook his head. "Take it. You'll have to find my wallet, but I'm keeping you from going to work, so I might as well make sure you're getting paid."

Angelo chuckled. "You're keeping me from having to _commute_," he reminded him, going to his bedside once again. He took the wallet from the tray and handed it to the other man. "But _thank you_. I promise I'll be frugal."

With a slight amused smile, Lorenzo took the wallet and removed his credit card from it. "This way, you can even run down to Denver if I need you to. And for god's sake, get yourself something to eat; that cafeteria food can't be good for you."

The two men shared a laugh, and Lorenzo reached up to touch Angelo's cheek gently. "Thank you," he added quietly. "If it hadn't been for you-"

"I don't want to talk about that," Angelo said sternly, leaning down to kiss Lorenzo's forehead as the thin plastic card was pressed into his hand. He curled his fingers around it as Lorenzo's hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him down for a firm kiss, and shivered as their lips met, enjoying the relaxation that swept through his body; a quiet groan escaped him as Lorenzo's tongue brushed against his lips and entered his mouth. Taking a shaky breath, he pulled away and adjusted his clothes, hurrying out of the confines of the room. "I'll be back within the hour."

The CEO frowned gloomily as his assistant shut the door, leaving him alone. It was alternately too cold and stiflingly hot inside, and every time he relaxed enough to drift off, the beeping of his monitor roused him.

He wasn't sure how long it had been, perhaps half an hour, but as he was about to fall asleep for the third time, there was a gentle rapping on the glass of his door. He blinked and turned his head to squint out into the sterile whiteness of the hospital; after a moment he frowned at the orderly who stood outside. He waved him in and pressed the button on the side of his bed; the upper half slowly pivoted upward, growling mechanically all the way, as the door slid open slightly.

"Mister Medici, I've got a visitor here to see you; would you like to see him now?" The orderly looked at his clipboard. "It's Francesco Salviati."

Lorenzo nodded, picking up his glasses from the table and putting them on. "Yes, let him in," he said with a slight smile. "I'll see him."

The orderly nodded and backed up, allowing the young man entrance to the hospital room; the newcomer smiled apologetically and approached the bed. He set a rather large bouquet of sweetly-scented pastel flowers down on the bedside tray, then shut the glass door and pulled closed the curtain. "_Signor_ Medici... I'm glad to see you looking so well," he said. "I got the news that you were in the hospital and had to come out to see you. I was sorry to hear about your brother."

There was little to say to that. Lorenzo shifted slightly, nervously nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Thank you," he tried finally; it was the best response he could think of.

"And how are you?" Salviati pressed, glancing into Lorenzo's dark eyes; his own flitted nervously around the room.

Lorenzo chuckled derisively. "I can't really complain, I suppose," he said, examining the petals of a flower which dangled quite near his face. "After all, I'm alive, aren't I?"

Salviati nodded. "It's the best any of us can say."


	123. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXXIII

"Yes, Lorenzo will see you this evening; be here after six," Angelo said, holding his Blackberry to his ear with his shoulder as he nudged shut the door of his Escalade. "Clarice will be here before then, and woe betide anyone who gets in her way." He pocketed his keys, pressing the lock button on the remote, and started toward the entrance of the hospital.

Mario chuckled good-naturedly on the other end of the line. "Sì, _I understand. We all know her ways well_."

"I'm glad you agree." Angelo passed through the automated sliding doors and entered the hospital lobby, taking the smartphone in his hand. The reception immediately became worse, the signal crackling in the speaker. "I have to go up to his room; I'll meet you downstairs at around six, alright?"

"_Alright, we'll see you then_," Mario said, and the call disconnected with a click and a quiet beep in the speaker.

Angelo pocketed the phone and headed down the hall to the elevator; he pressed the button and the doors slid open quickly. As he entered the elevator, the Blackberry vibrated in his pocket upon receipt of a text message. He frowned and looked at the screen as he pressed the second floor button, leaning heavily against the railing inside the elevator. The text was from the new Medici Bank intern, Giovanni, and it read: "_I just heard about Lorenzo! What's going on, do you need anything?_"

"_No_," he replied, "_we're okay here; you can come see him either tonight or tomorrow if you like, but business will continue as normal. Thank you._"

The doors opened and he exited the elevator. The floor was buzzing with activity, as he had come to expect; the orderly leaned against a counter, talking to a young female nurse. When he saw Angelo, he excused himself from the conversation.

"Hi, there... Mister Medici has a visitor right now," he said genially, placing himself quite firmly between Angelo and the door of Lorenzo's room.

Angelo frowned. Clarice wasn't due to arrive for another few hours yet. "Ah... who, exactly, is this visitor?"

"It's, uh... Francesco Salviati," said the orderly, and Angelo's eyes went wide. Mario had warned him over the phone to keep an eye on the Salviati, and this coupled with the text he'd received the day before from an unknown sender set his nerves completely on edge. He pushed past the orderly and ran to the room; the door was shut and the curtain pulled, and a few faint noises could be heard from within through the glass, unpleasant sounds, perhaps of a struggle.

He yanked the door open and pushed the curtain back, drawing in a sharp breath as he saw Salviati's hands holding a pillow down over Lorenzo's face. The CEO struggled beneath it, kicking at the covers; his own hands grasped at Salviati's wrists and the clip fell off of his forefinger, detaching him from the monitor which began to sound continuously, screeching at the bedside.

Salviati whipped around, and his grip on the pillow weakened enough for Lorenzo to push it away from his face, gasping for air.

"Someone _help_!" Angelo called, short of breath and helpless. Salviati dropped the pillow, his eyes wide like those of a deer in headlights, and he shot a brief glance toward the window before bolting, shoving Angelo aside and knocking him onto the floor as he ran, his slick-soled dress shoes squealing on the shiny, slippery floor until he was grabbed and thrown down by a burly security guard.

"What the _hell_ happened?" demanded the orderly over the sound of the wailing monitor as he hurried over to the room. His eyes were wide and nervous, and he glanced furtively at the tangled mass of limbs that was Salviati and the security guard tussling on the floor, and then held out a hand to help Angelo to his feet.

Lorenzo sat up in the bed, coughing into his hand, and Angelo got to his knees outside the door, then stood with the orderly's help. "Salviati was trying to kill him," he said, putting a hand at the back of his neck. "He had a... a pillow over his face-"

"Did they get him?" Lorenzo interrupted, his voice gravelly and weak. He held his smudged glasses in a shaking hand as he hung his head.

The orderly nodded, entering the room and looking at Lorenzo's monitors, trying to stop the constant sound. "Yeah, I- I'm so sorry, he told me he was a friend-"

"I thought he was," Lorenzo said, taking a deep breath as he pawed around on the bed for the forefinger pulse monitor. When he found it, he clipped it to his finger and the alarm ceased; the monitor returned to its occasional placid beep. "_Jesus fucking Christ_, that thing's annoying."

Angelo went to his bedside and took his glasses from him, then took a cloth from his back pocket to clean them. "Lauro, _Christ_, I'm so sorry; I shouldn't have left."

Lorenzo shook his head. "No, it's not your fault." He looked at the orderly. "Get me the _fuck_ out of here. I want to be discharged."

The orderly looked completely panicked for a moment before regaining his composure. "Ah... sir, I'm sorry to say we can't discharge you right now without clearance-"

"It's not safe here," Angelo said fretfully, sitting beside Lorenzo on the bed as he relentlessly polished the lenses of Lorenzo's glasses. "You can't expect him to stay here."

"Angelo, it's alright, I'll take care of this." Lorenzo took his glasses back and put them on, folding his legs beneath himself. "Now... I fund a wing of this hospital," he informed the orderly. "Who do I talk to about getting discharged?"

Going pale, the orderly nodded. "A-alright. I'll speak to the doctor," he said. "The police will want to talk to you about this attempt on your life, I... I'm _terribly_ sorry, I don't know how it could have happened-"

"Enough," Lorenzo interjected. "I'll speak to them in due time. Talk to the doctor." He looked at the floral arrangement on the bedside tray and scowled. "And take these damned flowers to the chapel, I don't want them."


	124. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXXIV

"_Suit up, Auditore. _Signor_ Zaccardi will see you now_."

Giovanni sagged wearily against the padded wall, his vision foggy with fatigue and his neck aching with the effort of holding his head erect. He had not slept in almost two days and he felt like an animal confined in a cage, prodded by visitors every five minutes or so to assure that he did not rest; his hair hung greasily in his eyes and his jaw itched with two days of thick brown stubble.

He'd expected someone else; he'd expected to be jerked around a little more before he was allowed to speak with Zaccardi.

Perhaps, he thought, this could end soon; perhaps there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

He sat up on his knees and watched the heavy door swing open; through half-lidded eyes he watched the red glow pouring off of the man's large form as he approached, unchanged and unwavering.

Perhaps he had thought wrong.

"_Signor_ Auditore," said Emilio Zaccardi with the air of geniality. "How nice to see you. Tell me, how have you been?"

Giovanni gathered up the threads of his courage and slowly got to his feet, allowing his vision to return to normal as he looked into Zaccardi's eyes and steeling himself. "Where the hell are my children, _bastardo_?"

Zaccardi chuckled. He was only slightly taller than Giovanni, but he loomed over him like a tower, high and strong and clearly much more awake than the banker; his blue eyes stared down into Giovanni's gold ones. "I think we can talk about that in a few minutes," he said, glancing toward the door as it squealed open. "What the _hell_ is it, Anton?"

A man entered the room. He was new, small of stature and thin with a mustache and brown eyes that flitted about the room like the movement of flies over a carcass. "Mister Zaccardi, we... we've just received word. The mission in Fort Collins did not go as planned; the Medici banker lives, Mister Zaccardi," he said. "His brother is dead, but he lives." The man looked as though he would cry, his shoulders shaking as he spoke to his employer.

Giovanni looked from one man to the other, his stomach writhing in his abdomen. He had heard nothing of this; there had been no clue that they would go over his head, no indication that they had any interest in the Medici. It could not be a good sign.

Anton swallowed hard, taking Zaccardi's silence as a cue to speak, nervously and in clipped tones, his hands fidgeting in front of him as he chose his words. "Francesco de' Pazzi contacted Stephan this afternoon-"

"_Enough_," Zaccardi snapped, and Anton jerked away as if he'd been bitten. "_Signor_ Auditore, we'll continue this later," he added, glancing at Giovanni before grabbing Anton by his collar and throwing him toward the door from whence he had come and then following him out of the room and slamming shut the door.

Their footsteps receded from the door and Giovanni sank into the corner again, wrapping an arm around himself; he covered his mouth with the fingers of the other hand, curling his knees to his chest. It was little surprise that the Medici had been attacked, now that the Pazzi were involved; there had always been a rivalry between the two families, but it had never before become violent (indeed, Lorenzo's older sister had married a Pazzi), but the peace had been somewhat tenuous from the beginning.

He could only hope that Lorenzo's undoubtedly rash reaction to the attack would not entice the Zaccardi and Pazzi to press further to obtain what they wanted, whatever that was; everything had changed, even Zaccardi's smell.

Sighing weakly, he tried to take his mind off of things he could not control. There was bickering outside, unclear voices; he crawled across the cold floor and pressed his ear to the heavy door to listen.

"_You don't think he's just... making this shit up, do you, Bil_? _Like, just to mess with us_?"

"_Why_? _You saying you're willing to take the chance_? _You fuck this up and the kid _dies_, man: that's not in our fucking contract_," Bil replied.

Giovanni's heart leapt to his throat and he pulled himself up to listen at the little window inset in the door. There was a short crackling response from the walkie-talkie, words that he couldn't understand; they were followed by harsh laughter.

"_That's not the _point, _man, he's supposed to be in the dark_," Bil said. "_Anyway, what's it hurt to just go along_? _So it's a little inconvenient; need I remind you how fucking much you're getting paid to babysit over there_?"

The other man outside the door spoke over the bad reception of the walkie-talkie. "_I still say he's fucking with us. Who the fuck ever heard of a kid that can't eat a candy bar_?"

Bil grunted. "_Fuck, I don't know. My niece can't eat bread. It's gotta be, like, special bread, otherwise it'll make her sick. Look, anyway: we've gotta be careful with the kid. Boss doesn't want him dead._"

Giovanni grunted, his teeth set on edge, as he went to the single chair in the middle of the room and sat to wait out Zaccardi's return.

He felt sick, almost drunk, his body weighed down by exhaustion; his shoulders were at once tense and sagging, shivering violently as he wrapped his arms around himself to protect against the cold of sleep deprivation. He hung his head and closed his eyes, trying to forget the tightness in his chest in order to remember his own name.

Some time later, there was a heavy bang on the door of the room. "_Wake up, Auditore_!" called a voice outside; the window slid open as Giovanni rubbed his aching eyes. He didn't know how long he'd slept.

A pair of dark eyes looked through the window and Giovanni looked up into them; after a moment, the eyes disappeared and a closed water bottle was thrown through the opening in the door, landing heavily on the floor at Giovanni's feet. "_Drink_," the voice ordered, and with a bang, the window slammed shut.


	125. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXXV

"Change of plans," Mario said, pulling his long dark hair back into a tight ponytail as he came down the stairs of _Casa Auditore_.

Leonardo looked up from the intense study of a jigsaw puzzle on the table in the living room. "What? What was the _first_ plan?" he asked perplexedly.

Mario shook his head. "Never mind. I don't want to confuse you... or anyone else, for that matter." He pocketed his cell phone and went to the chair in which Desmond was seated, reading the comics page of the paper. "Let me have a seat, alright?"

"_Oh_... sorry," said Desmond awkwardly, folding the paper and standing to allow Mario the chair. "What's this about, anyway?" he asked, sitting on the arm of the couch and peering over Leonardo's shoulder.

"Lorenzo was attacked this morning." Mario sat heavily in the chair, crossing his thick legs. "Don't worry: he's _fine_," he said, heading off the worried fussing he foresaw in Leonardo's eyes. "We'll be seeing him this afternoon at his house."

"_Wait_, I- I thought that he was at the hospital!" Leonardo said, stunned and concerned. "How did this happen?"

Mario sighed heavily, closing his eyes and mentally counting backward from ten. "I don't want to get into this right now, but Angelo caught Francesco Salviati holding a pillow over Lorenzo's face. He's _fine_," he said again with a glance at Leonardo, "and he's been discharged now. I've sent some of my men to his house to keep him safe."

Altaïr entered the living room from the kitchen, holding a paper-towel-wrapped bag of ice to his neck with one hand and possessively clutching a can of Red Bull in the other. "Anything else we need to know?" he asked.

Leonardo looked up at him and his eyes went wide; he clambered over the back of the couch to investigate. "_Honey_, what happened to you?"

"Nothing, _nothing_," Altaïr said, dodging Leonardo's hand as he reached out for the ice pack and turning away as a red flush colored his cheeks. "It's fine, don't... don't worry."

There was a pregnant pause, in which Leonardo's hand lingered momentarily in midair; finally he dropped it to his side, flushing slightly in turn. "Ah... _capisco_," he said, and Altaïr ducked past him, hurrying across the room to sit near the fireplace. A few moments later, Malik padded down the stairs; he glanced briefly at Altaïr and chuckled quietly.

Mario frowned, looking at Altaïr and then at Malik, and then shook his head and sighed. "_Anyway_," he grunted, "I don't want to make definitive plans until we've talked to Lorenzo, but they've already made moves on Gilberto and myself, and the Pazzi know Ezio."

"And if the Zaccardi are paying attention," said Altaïr, shifting the ice pack on his neck, "then they know me."

"_Veramente_. So I don't want anyone out there alone." Mario got to his feet again and went into the kitchen; he returned a moment later with an open beer. "If you're right, we have four targets in the same house-"

"Five," Malik corrected him. "Neither Altaïr nor I have done a job without the other since I began working for the Zaccardi."

Altaïr smiled at him briefly from across the room, earning him a faint smirk as Malik seated himself beside Leonardo and fitted a piece into the puzzle.

Mario winced, giving Malik a compassionate smile. "I understand. I wouldn't want to put you in harm's way-"

Malik looked up at him with dark eyebrows lifted; that red flicker had returned to his black-brown eyes. "_Hm_. I see I will have to put _myself_ there, then."

"Malik," Leonardo interjected, but then quieted when the other man looked at him askance.

"I have no qualms with fighting," Malik added. "I am perhaps _rusty_, but that can be easily rectified."

Altaïr said nothing; he merely stared at Malik from across the room, trying to reconcile his feelings on the subject. He knew him to be a competent fighter, but worried for his safety after the incident, and now that they had become intimate again, it frightened him more than he had hoped it would to see Malik ready and willing to once again risk his life.

Indeed, there seemed to be little impetus for reply all around, as Mario merely nodded.

"We leave at three-thirty for _Casa Medici_," he said. "I expect a group to stay here and hold down the fort. Sort it out amongst yourselves. And where in god's name is _Ezio_?"

"He is upstairs," Leonardo said. "I think he is in Federico's room."

Mario grunted in annoyance. "Well, get him down here!"

"I'll get him," Altaïr volunteered, and hurried up the stairs, still clutching the ice pack to his neck.

He reached the door of Federico's room and stood hesitantly outside it for a moment; if he shut his eyes and leaned close to the doorjamb he could hear harsh breathing, which gave him a moment's pause. Finally he tapped on the door with the edge of his Red Bull can. "Ezio? You in there, man?"

Ezio grunted. "_Yeah. I'm in here._"

"Can I, uh... can I come in?" Altaïr asked, trying to shake the unsettled feeling in his stomach.

"_I don't know. Can you_?" Ezio laughed derisively, and Altaïr grimaced.

He held the ice pack against his neck with his shoulder and opened the door; Ezio lay in his brother's bed, clutching a pillow to his chest and staring at the ceiling.

"Hey. Your uncle needs to talk to you-"

"I heard everything. Well, most of it, anyway. _Zio_ is loud, you know?" Ezio looked over at Altaïr, who stood in the doorway of the bedroom, and narrowed his eyes. "Whoa. What happened to your neck?"

Altaïr grunted. "Malik happened," he said, and lowered the ice pack to reveal a large, angry-looking bruise surrounded by the characteristic interrupted red ring of a bite mark. "Last time he did that, I couldn't turn my head for two weeks; I think I got off lucky this time."

A slight smirk drifted lazily over Ezio's face as Altaïr returned the ice to his neck. "I'm glad you two are getting along better now," he said, digging his fingertips into the pillow in his arms. "At least _something_ is coming together. Everything else is falling apart."


	126. La Vendetta degli Amanti CXXVI

"Pass me that bottle, will you, Braccio?" Lorenzo reached out as the man at his side handed over the tall, thin bottle of limoncello. "_Grazie_."

Angelo frowned as he watched Lorenzo refill his cordial glass. "Are you sure you should be drinking, Lauro?"

Lorenzo chuckled. "You worry too much, Angelo. I'm sure you recall that the morphine's been gone from my system for some time..."

"Quite _violently_ gone," Angelo said with a grimace.

"Hm. As expected. And still, you made me wait four hours." Lorenzo smiled and patted his thighs as Angelo passed him, in an attempt to entice him to sit on his lap.

Angelo scowled at him, trying to disguise the wariness with which he observed the massive dog lying at his side. "The doctors said _six_."

"Leave him _be_, Angie," Braccio Martelli urged, putting an arm around Lorenzo's shoulders; the Doberman lifted his head and sniffed Angelo's trouser leg.

"I believe I've asked you not to call me that..." Angelo picked up his wine glass and refilled it, moving slightly away from the dog and toward a cushy chair a few feet away.

Braccio chuckled. "Have you then? I must have missed it."

Lorenzo grinned. "Sorry, Angelo. Braccio, please: I'd appreciate _some_ domestic peace today."

Angelo merely frowned in mild despair and pulled his Blackberry out of his pocket as it rang. "Ah... oh. It's Marsilio. I'll, ah... I'll have to take this."

"_Hell_," Lorenzo hissed, sipping from the cordial glass. "Knew there was someone I forgot to invite."

"Ha." Angelo answered the phone. "Hello, Marsilio, what can I... oh, hello, Gerry," he said as he exited the room, and Lorenzo watched him from his spot on the couch until he was out of view.

A tall, skeletal man entered the room from the hall and smiled at Lorenzo. There seemed to be a veritable cloud of sage aroma hanging over him. "I've finished... oh, we're missing one," he observed, and Lorenzo nodded toward the kitchen.

"Angelo's taking a call from Marsi's housemate," he explained, resting a hand on the dog's back. The dog snuffled into his master's thigh and closed his eyes. "Have a seat, Gigi, and hand me that remote control."

Luigi handed the remote over and sat on the other couch. "As I was about to say, I've just finished cleansing the master bedroom and bath. I was surprised: there seemed to be more, ah... negative energy there than I had thought-"

"That would be Clarice," Braccio said with a laugh, and Lorenzo looked at him askance. He merely patted Lorenzo's back and smiled winningly.

Lorenzo gave him a world-weary sigh. "Go on, Gigi."

"I would feel safer if you would allow me to cleanse your office," said the tall man, picking up a wine glass and sipping from it. "After all, given the motive behind the attack, it would be best to take precautions with regard to your place of business..."

"No can do," said Lorenzo, holding up a hand before Luigi could interrupt him. "One of my interns is allergic to sage."

Luigi frowned. "Well, there are things other than sage-"

"Oh, I wouldn't want you to take time out of your schedule, _amico mio_. It'll be fine," Lorenzo assured him. "Mario Auditore has my back covered; his men are outside right now examining the security. Please: you've put yourself out enough."

Before Luigi could speak, Angelo reentered the room, pocketing his Blackberry. "Ah... Marsi and Gerry are on the way. Apparently Marsi is somewhat scandalized by not having been informed of your situation, Lauro."

Lorenzo grimaced. "Ah. He would be, wouldn't he? He'll want to mother me a bit, I'd imagine-"

"Speaking of which, your mother will be here late this evening," Angelo added. "I've been e-mailing her. She would have come to see you in the hospital but I urged her not to-"

"Good," Lorenzo said. "She's spent enough time in hospitals." The Doberman mumbled in disapproval as Lorenzo shifted his massive head off of his thigh, and Lorenzo quirked an eyebrow at him. "Angelo, would you put Jove out? Marsi is afraid of him-"

"Well, he's considerably _bigger_ than Marsi," said Braccio. "And Angelo as well."

Angelo grunted irritably. "Yes, well... Jove, let's go."

The dog slumped awkwardly off of the couch and followed Angelo through the kitchen, and Angelo let him out onto the enclosed patio; only a moment later a serval cub darted in and gamboled about the room.

"_Shit_- Apollo's in," Angelo said as the cat trotted into the living room.

"That's fine," Lorenzo called back. "He's still smaller than Marsi."

Braccio chuckled. "Not by much. _Ehi_, is there anything good on TV?" he asked, gesturing to the remote control in Lorenzo's hand.

Lorenzo turned on the television and watched as the serval cub stretched out to his full length and clawed at the carpet with thick pearly nails, pulling up loops of yarn. "Hey! Apollo!" he called, and the cat continued flexing its feet and ripping up the rug. "Angelo... someone, get him to cut that out."

The cat lay himself out on the carpet and began daintily licking a spotted paw, and Lorenzo chuckled and returned his attention to the TV Guide Channel.

Angelo entered the room with a large glass of ice water and put his hand on Lorenzo's shoulder. "What are we watching?"

"Trying to find something. What do you think would get Marsi out of here the fastest?" Lorenzo asked, scrolling through the listings. "I feel bad, but he's honestly a bit of buzzkill..."

"Well, there's _The Hangover_," Braccio offered, putting his feet up on the table- which earned him a glare from Lorenzo- and taking a sip of limoncello. "Or, ah... _Very Bad Things_... they kill a prostitute in that one and bury her body in the desert."

Lorenzo frowned. "That's... that's not something I want to see right now," he said, scrolling past the listing. "How about _Spaceballs_?"

"He's seen it," Luigi said dully. "How about _Trainspotting_?"

Shaking his head, Lorenzo finished his glass of lemon liqueur. "You know why I don't like that movie, Gigi," he said with a grimace. "I have seen enough dead babies to last a lifetime, thank you."

Luigi winced. "Ah... _mi dispiace_," he said weakly. "There's always-"

"_Clerks_," said Angelo, gesturing toward the television. "It's about to start."

Lorenzo looked over his shoulder at his assistant. "Why _Clerks_?"

Angelo made a face. "It's _grotesque_, Lauro. You'll love it. More importantly, Marsi will hate it." He took a seat on the arm of the chair and the serval batted at the toe of his shoe. "Everything is off-screen, but it offends the senses," he said with a slight laugh. "Trust me. It'll do the trick."

Braccio chuckled. "_Bene_. I might know just the thing to up the ante a little further."


End file.
